


Pushed To The Limit

by hoolihoops



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Romance, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 63,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoolihoops/pseuds/hoolihoops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set Post-Reichenbach and after Sherlock and John's reunion, the pair's feelings and friendship start to develop and grow into something stronger and their relationship is tested when a jealous and vengeful Sebastian Moran comes to try and pull the duo apart. Soon things start to break down, but can Sherlock and John confess their true emotions to one another before the end?<br/>Fluctuating POV between Sherlock and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay woo so i finally got my invite for ao3 and well here's a first chapter to my piece of work that i completed a couple of months back - since i'm not writing anything new right now. aww so fluffy. so this one is John's POV this time and well i think Sherlock's comes in in a couple of chapters soooo ENJOY!

_John_

"Sherlock!"

"SHERLOOCK!"

My hand slips from my ear and falls to my side, my mobile still managing to sit delicately in my palm. I watch him as he falls from the roof, arms out at his sides. Falling faster, faster and faster, his arms thrashing out besides him, falling quicker still, his wings beating up and down, like a young bird trying to take flight, but failing, falling, trying to steady himself, but the speed... the sheer speed... his coat streaming out behind him like a cape, flapping around madly, uncontrollably. I watch as he disappears behind the small building which obscures my vision from his decent. It's all over in a split second.

Then I hear an ear-splitting, cold, hard smack as he hits the pavement. I knew then and there he'd be dead. My instinct is to run to him and be with him but as I turn the corner, I freeze. I see him. Lifeless, sprawled out on the pavement. My heart stops. My head starts spinning as I feel the world closing in on me. Darkness starts to creep in, blurring my vision as I realise I'm on the floor, just as he is, with my face against the tarmac, with a throbbing pain in my head. I look up, ignoring the pain, gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes to focus and see people are gathering around Sherlock. My Sherlock. I hold my hand against the side of my head as the punishing pain strikes back.

I look at my hand. There's blood. I feel a warm sensation trickling down my head, slithering past my ear, into my ear, swallowing up the side of my face. Suddenly, Sherlock's face starts flashing into my vision. I can't see anything else but him, then darkness over and over again. His pallid fair skin, his blood drenched hair, his soft skull collapsed into the side of his head, his stony cold blue eyes - now even more ethereal. I squeeze my eyes shut temporarily. I can't look at him, not in this way. I look up to see he's closer to me now and I find myself crawling towards him. I crawl faster in the hazy darkness; the only thing that's elucidated is Sherlock and only Sherlock.

My crawling gets faster, more eager, more desperate as I realise he's getting further away. I'm first on my body – army crawling, then I'm on all fours like a toddler and then I'm begging on my knees for it all to stop, but still moving. I can't give up moving. I stumble to my feet and soon my crawling turns to running, my begging turns to pleading. My breathing quickens and it changes quickly to a deeper, sharper, irregular rhythm. But the faster I run, the further he becomes until I stop dead in my tracks as if I hit an invisible wall. And I feel faint. I can hear a loud ringing and a distant crying of my name as I fall backwards onto the floor and stare up at the darkness, unsure whether it's the floor or the sky or anything in between, unable to move. I see Sherlock coming into my vision, very much alive, and there's complete and utter panic in his eyes, the only sort I've seen him express once – at Baskerville. I read his lips 'John! John!' repeatedly. I can't hear him but he's shaking me, clasping my face, gripping every inch of me in fear when I see him being pulled away and he's screaming now, screaming my name, for me to help him. I can't move. I watch him being dragged away, into the shadows, being taken from me once more. And the ringing gets louder and louder, higher and higher as I try and reach for his hand but then he's gone. In a flash. And it hits me like a...

_THUD_

I wake up in a cold sweat, panting heavily and on the floor, lying on my back and wrapped in my bed sheet and crying out for Sherlock. My chest heaves in and out as I struggle to breathe in my stifling, airless room - it doesn't exactly help that it's summer meaning it's almost 16c outside in the middle of the night. It takes me a while to compose myself, clear my head and regulate my breathing as I pick up my sheet and climb back into bed. Just as I think the worst is over, I realise that he didn't respond to me calling his name. I bolt upright in bed. The panic sets back in. I start hyper-ventilating and shouting, almost crying out "Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" as loud and as long as I can for him to hear me, that's  _if_ he can hear me at all. I lay down flat in my bed, gripping hold of my sheet and then my head to cover my ears as I hear the ringing. I screw up my face. But then I feel something, someone shaking me and I hear my name.

"John! John! Are you all right? John, what's happened?"

It's Sherlock.

Thank God.

I open my eyes to see he's crouching by my side gazing at me with those alarmed eyes, looking deep, dark and almost brown in the blackness of my room. Instantly, I jump out from my bed and wrap my arms around him, looking back I'm quite surprised he didn't pull me off from him and tell me to pull myself together – it was just a dream at the end of the day. But I was so scared, so scared of losing him again. And his reaction surprised me as much as I surprised him. At first he was shocked and I felt him tense up, but then he relaxed and hugged me back, just as tight. "It's okay, John. I'm here now." I heard him whisper, quite a few times as we just held one another. He could sense I was in deep pain and he probably, most likely, already knew why – I mean he is Sherlock, he can tell what sort of jam you had in your sandwich just by looking at your cufflinks or something stupid like that for God's sake.

"Don't ever leave me again." I whispered in response, my voice breaking slightly. That's when he moved his hands up to my shoulders and pushed me back to arms length and looked at me solemnly in the eyes. I could tell he was sorry. Every time I caught him staring at me like he did, he was always sorry. Ever since our reunion he's always apologising, which isn't like him. The Sherlock I knew never apologised, for anything. But now, he's always telling me how sorry he is whenever he catches me at a bad moment, or I've had a dream. He knew I understood exactly how he felt so we didn't say anything. We just stared at one another until I nodded once and he (oddly enough) patted his hands on my shoulders and stepped back. I took that as my time to get back into bed. I pulled the sheet up to my waist, rose one arm under my pillow and the other placed on my stomach and closed my eyes and laid still for what seemed like hours.

Suddenly, my eyelids flashed open. Still dark. Was  _that_  a dream?

I looked besides my bed, to the doorway, nothing.

"Sherlock?"

His head popped round the door, eyebrows raised. Jesus, my head was screwed up that night.

"Don't go."

Sherlock's expression softened as he stepped into my room and sat on the edge of my bed, looking straight ahead with his blank, unreadable expression. He was wearing his short thin dressing gown and long navy blue pyjamas; at least  _he_  was trying to get some sleep, which is exactly what I'd been telling him to do for the past week at least. I just watched him as he sat and looked straight into oblivion, he must've been thinking. We must've stayed like that for quite a while because I could feel my eyelids getting droopy again. Just as I slowly closed my eyes, I heard him say:

"Do you want me to sleep with you?"

I opened my eyes to look at him with heavy surprise, almost first (and wrongly) assuming he was joking. He was still in the same position. I mulled it over as if I didn't hear the words right.

"What?" I replied. His head turned down to look at me.

"Do you, want me, to sleep, here, with you?" he repeated, in the slow monosyllabic way he does when he wants to be particularly annoying.

He was serious. He was actually being 100% serious, about sleeping in the same bed with me.

"To comfort you of course, sometimes it helps. Apparently people in distress feel more at ease when someone is sleeping with them, it's usually their partner I'm guessing but since you don't have one I guess I'll have to do."

He shrugged as if it was no big deal and I just looked at him, my mouth embarrassingly slightly ajar in shock. Eventually, I slowly and indecisively nodded. And just like that he whipped the sheet up, budged me over, placed me on my left side and slipped right into bed with me and moulded himself around me – spooning me! The great Sherlock Holmes spooning with his flat mate. Now I'm so glad no one saw  _that._ At first, it was weird. I was almost tempted to climb out of bed and run. But then, after a while, it sort of felt... good, comforting. He had one arm underneath my pillow where I was resting my head and the other sort of wrapped around my waist. I remembered all the times I did this with the women I slept with and I didn't think for a second that that would've been me. Never. But it happened. And he seemed totally natural with it. And I felt content to say the least.

I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck where he gently rested his forehead against the back of my head. I could feel the light, gentle pressure on my back as his chest grew outwards with every inhalation he took, then for the feeling to disappear as he breathed out onto my neck. This pattern was so soothing and so relaxing that I can't have stayed awake for long. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and just before I fell asleep, I vaguely remember raising my left arm up underneath my pillow, as I always did before I slept, to hold onto something warm and slender, then to feel it sort of return the gesture. I think it must have been Sherlock's hand.


	2. Chapter 2

_John_

I woke up the next morning still lying on my side but with the sheet pulled up to my shoulders. The room was dark but with little beams of early morning sunlight pouring in through the gaps in my curtains. I had slept through the night, no disturbances and no nightmares, which was very rare. In the seconds before I was fully awake, I was dazed as to why I hadn’t woke up during the night. Of course, sleeping through is great but I’ve only ever successfully achieved a full 8 hours sleep a handful of times in many years but this time, my sleepy consciousness was telling me there was something different about the previous night.

And then I remembered why. I sat up in my bed and looked around my dingy little room, as if to see if there were any traces if what I was remembering was real. I wiped my hand down my face, pulling my eyes open, trying to wake myself up a little. I was still pretty sleepy and everything seemed to merge together so I was unaware where the line between my imagination and reality was drawn. I hung my tired head and closed my eyes, trying to unpick the events of the night before. Sherlock can’t have slept with me, can’t have spooned me. Could he? But why would he? Comfort he said, but it’s not like Sherlock to comfort someone. Unless it was me. But what did this mean?

I soon shook off the sleep and gathered up enough strength to climb out of bed and put on a pair of pyjama bottoms before setting off downstairs to get a morning cuppa and read the daily newspaper, like I did every morning. As I walked down the stairs, I could hear Sherlock’s soft violin play a new, soothing melody. _‘He must be trying to think again’_ I thought to myself as I entered the kitchen and reached for the kettle, but stopping when I saw a recently made mug of tea – in my favourite mug, well my only mug, placed conveniently by the kettle. I looked up to see Sherlock’s silhouette standing in front of the bright window, holding his violin to his chin and swaying as he played. I stood and watched him for a while, feeling a pang in my heart, but I ignored it, puzzled as to what it could mean.

“You made me tea?”

“Oh, morning, John.” Sherlock said throwing me a fleeting look as his body turned around briefly to acknowledge my existence. “Thought you might need a cuppa after your nightmare last night. Same one was it?”

“Yeah... yeah it was.” I said apprehensively, gripping the mug’s handle and sipping the hot, delicious tea. “Same one. Yeah.”

He continued playing. This time it was a more complicated piece, with brisk, sharp and short notes but still quite easy to listen to first thing in the morning. I watched Sherlock as he played and danced round the living room, with a familiar feeling growing in my chest, as I sipped on my tea and thought about last night. I couldn’t get my head round the fact that he slept in my bed. Sherlock was right though, listening to (or in his case, playing) the violin does help you think. Unexpectedly, the mantra stopped with a quick sweep of the bow and an ascending of notes when he turned and placed the violin on his desk, grabbed his laptop and jumped onto the sofa, outstretching his legs and sinking deep into the couch. There, he laid completely and utterly still for what seemed like ages, besides the fast flight of his fingers over the keyboard.

Conversation fell silent. I walked awkwardly over to my armchair and sat in it, letting out a content sigh to break the uncomfortable silence. I dropped my head to stare into my half empty mug.

“Ask.” He demanded. I shot my head up to look at him, he hadn’t moved. I looked at him as I could feel my brow drop. He flapped a hand in my direction as if he was trying to swat an irritating insect. “Something’s on your mind. You’ve got questions. Ask.”

I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek as I tried to phrase the question as best I could.

“Did you really sleep in my bed with me all of last night?” Looks like I didn’t do a pretty good job there. My tone was heavy with disbelief.

He turned his head to look at me with the ‘isn’t it obvious?’ or ‘are you stupid?’ face. God, I just wanted to punch him then.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I felt a lump form in my throat. I did my best to hide my embarrassment, by throwing him an ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ expression. He probably saw right through it though. He looked back at his laptop screen, fingers quickly tapping away again.

“To be comforted, I mean. Your dream was that I left again and that’s the last thing you want. I came into your room and reminded you that I hadn’t gone anywhere and that I never would ever again, but then you asked me to stay. I assumed that’s what you expected from me – for me to stay as close as possible to you to assure you that I wouldn’t leave again.”

I stared at him as my heart grew heavy. I was astonished at how accurate he was, he had quite literally echoed how I was feeling. I shook my head slightly and looked into my mug again, taking the last gulp of tea. I rose from my chair, walked into the kitchen and placed the mug on the side. I could sense him watching me as I did so. Placing my hands either side of the sink, I tucked my chin into my neck and closed my eyes, letting out a slight sigh. So many things were racing round in my head; I can’t even begin to list them out. I then decided to go back to my chair and read the newspaper, see if that would take my mind off things. I plumped up the Union Jack pillow, sat back down in the chair and took the newspaper from the side table. As I flicked open the front page, flapping it out so it wasn’t crinkled I caught Sherlock looking at me again, with sorrow filled eyes.

There was the pang again. A sharp impulse of... I don’t know... in my heart every time I looked at him. The moment he noticed I had realised he was watching me, he became uninterested and continued with his business on his laptop. I pretended to read the paper, barely even reading the front cover. My eyes continued to dart up from the paper to watch Sherlock, back down to the news, turn the page, then to gaze at Sherlock again. Eventually, I managed to gain some sort of focus on reading the paper just before his fingers stopped typing and rested on the keyboard. The absence of the constant noise made me bring the newspaper up towards my face, acting as if there was something really remarkable in the press, but to secretly peer over the tops of the sheets.

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling as his laptop balanced delicately on his lap. Slowly, his forearms rose towards one another as his palms met and his fingertips steepled. His fingers rested on his lips as he closed his eyes and dreamily breathed out. His well-known thinking pose. One word sprung to mind,

 _“Beautiful.”_ I whispered, which was, thank God, drowned out by my text alert on my phone. Sherlock’s head snapped round to look at the noise which disturbed his thoughts, at first I thought he reacted to my little outburst. My cheeks flushed red and I could have just died then and there. I picked up my phone from the table.

_1 New Message_

_-Open-_

_Mike Stamford: Hi John finally plucked up the nerve 2 propose 2 Sue! And she said yes! So 2night, we’re having a celebration at Movida – you know that nightclub near Oxford Circus? 8pm tonight, love to see you there m8! You can bring a +1 too if u want. Mike_

I looked up at Sherlock. He stared at me with narrow eyes and furrowed brow, clearly very annoyed.

“It’s Mike.” I said clearing my throat. “He’s throwing an engagement party and...”

“No.”

“Oh, come on Sherlock.”

“No.”

“He’s finally getting engaged! Sue and him have been together for ages...”

“The length of time of their relationship doesn’t make the party anymore appealing.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. Then I thought of something.

“It was him after all that introduced us. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be in Baker Street right now.”

He fell silent. Gotcha.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock_

Parties. They’re all the same; full of drunks and people squealing and laughing and flinging themselves around and calling it _dancing_. To be frank, being in a nightclub pretending to act ‘normal’ and to have a good time for Stamford’s sake didn’t exactly appeal to me, after all I was in the middle of updating my website – I had discovered the 244 th different type of tobacco and had been busying myself researching it’s frequency in smokers, the strength of tar, the types of carcinogens released in its smoke, the usual really.

But this time, John said it would be different, an _engagement_ party. The form of party made no difference to me, I still opposed in going. Seeing as Stamford invited John to the party and not me, I didn’t see my presence being of any purpose. However, John was right (this time) and I suppose there was a sort of sentiment attached to Stamford, with him establishing our relationship – although I couldn’t quite see it at the time.

We arrived at the Movida nightclub at quarter past 8; I wouldn’t leave any sooner to miss out on Mrs Hudson’s fabulous cups of tea and scones she makes for us at eight o’clock. John was quite eager to leave on the dot, but when he saw how important those delicious little cakes are to me, he was quite shocked – but it shut him up. They’re not as major to me as I made out, but I was in a particular mood that evening where only Mrs Hudson’s baking would satisfy me. I managed to tempt him into having one by smothering it in strawberry jam, just one of his weaknesses. I dressed in my best attire, black 3 piece suit and my black bow tie as it was a _‘special’_ occasion and we hailed a cab. The nightclub was ‘alive’, as I recall John labelling it, with quite a number of people in the queue – most of them women, which wasn’t surprising really as it is statistically more likely. We queued outside, had ourselves patted down by a heavy looking and rather impatient bouncer – who I could tell had just had a row with the misses, his missing wedding ring complimented with the tan line and angry expression, particularly his shaking hands, spoke volumes (and those were just the obvious points) – and then entered the club’s main lounge.

The lounge was nicely decorated, though a bit simple for my taste, with white leather sofa boxes lining the walls with a small, glass coffee table in the middle of each one, accompanied with a small steel bucket full with ice cubes and a bottle of champagne – Bollinger Cuvee, about early 2000s? Not bad choice at all. In the centre of the room was a large, empty area, wooden flooring - at least 6 years old, good condition - which was crowded with groups of people ‘dancing’. The bar was a long, extended and impressive one, running from wall to wall where the boxes of seats were absent. Hundreds of different bottles of alcohol lined the wall behind the bar, lighted up by tiny spotlights in each of the small boxes of the wall they were slotted into. Neon lights, distinct smell of body odour, flashing strobe lasers, suspicious huddled groups of individuals (most likely drug dealers or prostitutes), excessively loud music... all of the signs of a common nightclub. I noted several persons which caught my attention, analysing them quickly to see if they were of any possible threat - or just purely for fun since I could presume I was going to be very bored that evening.

John spotted Stamford who was kneeling on the seat of the furthest sofa box to turn to face the door where we had entered, waving frantically but then hesitating in surprise as he saw me, oh joyous days. John waved back and then turned to face me.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready for what?” I jeered, walking in front of him and putting on my most normal act I could possibly pull out, waving enthusiastically at Stamford. Clearly John thought I wasn’t one for social gatherings, well I was about to prove him wrong. The table seated around 12 people, clearly booked for this evening judging by the shoddy ‘HAPPY ENGAGEMENT PARTY’ banner which was strung crooked on the wall beside the table. I looked at the faces gathered around on the sofas, many of whom apart from Molly and Lestrade I didn’t realise; the two were totally oblivious to the world around them, they didn’t even see me wave at them – which is disappointing because I would have paid to see the look on Lestrade’s face.  Stamford rose and gave John a handshake and a pat on the back, talked to him for a while – I could barely hear myself think over the music, which was highly irritating – and turned to me.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Sherlock?” he said, surprisingly happy as I shook his hand, giving him my best fake-smile – still not enough to convince John.

“Oh, well you know. I wanted to come here to congratulate you didn’t I? Why don’t I buy a round of drinks? My treat.”

Stamford looked stunned. Good. I clasped my hands together and grinned again.

“Now come on then, Mike! Where’s the blushing bride to be?”

I looked at Stamford with raised eyebrows and an expectant charm in my eyes as he tried to compose himself with my shocking sociability. Without a word, or maybe a stutter or two, he walked over to the table and indicated at a middle-aged woman to come. She foolishly climbed over a few people and giggled hysterically as she managed to slide out of the seats and fall into Stamford’s arms – accidentally of course. I tried not to raise my eyebrows at the state of her. She had clearly had a bit too many, even by this early time of the night.

“Lads, meet Sue... my gorgeous soon-to-be wife.” Stamford announced, pulling Sue closer to him and kissing her affectionately. Sue was a short woman of around 35, moderately attractive looking if you like the plump baby-faced sort of type, I for one aren’t interested in women, thick hair styled into a short dark red bob, verging on obese, had a deep love for scented candles and had 2 cats and a guinea pig, the latter clearly Stamford wasn’t fond of. John shook her hand and introduced himself. After his foreword, she looked at me. John’s eyes darted from Sue to me.

“Ah, and this is my friend...”

“Sherlock Holmes...” I interrupted, taking the woman’s hand and kissing it with a slight bow. “...Lovely to _finally_ make your acquaintance.” I gave her a wink and subtle laugh as she giggled herself into oblivion and stumbled around.

“Cor, he’s a right ‘andsome devil that one, Mike! Where’ve you been ‘iding him?”

Her distinct cockney accent obviously came through with the alcohol; I couldn’t remember John or Stamford ever saying anything about her being quite as common as she was then. She kissed Stamford on the cheek and blithered back to her group of friends as I stood and looked back at Stamford, throwing my arm around him and leading him to the bar, followed closely by John – I hope he was envious in the least.

“You’ve pulled yourself a right cracker there, Mike.” I said with a wink as we took our seats at the bar. “She’s a stunner!” I grinned sarcastically. I could have run to the toilet and scrubbed my mouth out with soap with the vocabulary I was using that evening. Mike replied just as I had planned: blushing, rolling eyes and laughing. I quickly took a glance at John who sat on the opposite side of Stamford, clearly aggravated. My plan was working. If he wanted normal, he would most certainly get normal and _more_. I waved a hand to the bartender and smiled an order of two pints for Stamford and John and a scotch for me.

Soon, I had ordered at least 6 pints for Stamford and 8 for John. They had a pathetic, childish competition to ‘down’ the pints as fast as they could – clearly John’s idea into taking advantage of my funding. I had finished my third scotch and figured it was enough for me so I sat and busied myself into analysing almost everyone in the nightclub, including the bartenders – two of which were having affairs with one another, one being married and the other in a complicated relationship, most likely with children involved.

Suddenly, Sue soon-to-be-Stamford emerged from the crowd and pulled Mike and John to their feet, I waved her off with a courteous smile and a shake of the head, then she started dancing with Mike. John, clearly heavily intoxicated, started laughing heartily and stumbled round to me, tugging at my arm.

“Come on, Sherlock! I’ve never seen you dance!”

“I don’t dance, John.” I snapped.

“Naaah that’s ‘cause you’re boring! Come on let’s tangoooo!”

“John.”

“Go on I dare you. I _dare you_ to have a laugh, have some fun.”

I could feel my left eyebrow prick up slightly. A challenge? He must have seen my interest because he let go then and backed up slightly, his face plastered with a smirk.

“How hard can it be? Go on, show me you can dance. Prove it to me.”

It was then that I was going to grab his arm, pull him in and dance the tango I had seen on the addicting daytime television John had shown me once, but I stopped myself for a moment. Then, however, someone caught my interest and changed my mind. Down the bar, around 3 yards from us, was a tall, short blonde haired male who had been focusing on us for quite some time in a rather intrusive manner. I stupidly hadn’t realised he was staring at _us,_ John and I, for all that length of time we had been sat at the bar – which could have been hours for all I know, I wasn’t exactly paying much attention to time that evening. His gaze was sharp and purposeful and he looked extremely cynical. The lighting was particularly appalling at the bar so I couldn’t exactly see what his facial expressions were showing, though from the shadows around his nose and jaw line, I could see his face was thin but strong looking and incredibly chiselled. I decided to find out more about this man so I grabbed John by the arm and stood up quickly out of my barstool, pulling John into me by the waist.

“Someone’s keen!” John spluttered, laughing warmly. I laughed in return. If I wanted to make this as credulous as possible, I needed to do it properly. The goal was to reach the male and find out about why he took such an interest to us, to me. I needed to act _normal_.

I looked down into John’s eyes and keenly smirked, wrapping my fingers around John’s hand and extending that arm, whilst placing the other hand on his shoulder blade. Tango I didn’t know, but waltz was my specialty, I had a knack for it my mother said. I laughed to relieve some tension I felt between us, especially how deeply John was looking into my eyes, which in turn made him more comfortable as the female in the situation.

From there I stepped forwards, he stepped back, I stepped left, he stepped right, I stepped back, he stepped forward and twirl, repeat, until we had waltzed our way down the bar until I acted I was worn out and needed a drink. John laughed, pushed me down into a barstool and waved at the bartender. We were right next to the male now, who was watching another couple, but this time smiling. John handed me another scotch, which I sipped hesitantly as to watch my inebriation and ordered himself another pint.

“John! John, watch this!” I heard Stamford call from behind us, John turned around as did I, but intensely watching the blonde haired male sat next to us out of my peripheral vision. He also turned around to watch Stamford... a friend? Also named John? I didn’t pay attention to what happened, but it soon had John leaning on the side of the bar in hysterics. I pretended to laugh as I took looked at Stamford who had slotted his way into John’s seat, whilst pushing John onto the next barstool – closer to the mysterious male.

“Oh!” Stamford suddenly exclaimed, turning his back on me and throwing his arms in the air. “Seb, sorry mate, didn’t see you there.”

I narrowed my eyes as to watch the man’s reaction - big grin, clearly fake judging by the ill movement of his eyes, but a pretty decent smile at best, accompanied by an embarrassed and humble chuckle. Stamford rose from his barstool and walked over to ‘Seb’ and stood behind him, slapping his hands onto the man’s shoulders.

“Don’t think I’ve introduced him tonight have I? Nah, well, lads this is Sebastian. Sebastian Moran.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Sherlock_

“S...Stamford... Sue Stamford... isn’t it  _beautiful_?” Stamford stuttered, swooning over his fiancé – again.

Stamford had retaken his place on the barstool next to me after introducing Sebastian to John and I - explaining how the two went to school together though Stamford could barely remember, hardly surprising with his memory span. Sebastian insisted that the secondary school that they attended was the same and that they both shared the same tutor, however they weren’t entirely close back then – even dropping in a few stories about some ‘hilarious’ events that occurred, which soon rejigged Stamford’s memory. For the rest of the speech from Stamford, explaining how the two were reunited, I found that Sebastian had a keen lock on me which I returned with a blank expression, though narrowing my eyes slightly in confusion. What was his problem?

“What is?” John blurted back, slugging down the last of his tenth beer.

“She is... she’s beautiful, John... I love her soooooooo~ much you wouldn’t un...derstand.”

“No I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t understand - you wanna know why?” John started shaking the empty beer glass at him. I knew exactly what was coming, I could almost mouth the words along with him.  “Because I’ve never actually had a decent rela..relationship with a girl because... because...”

“Because you’re too bloody fantastic for them!”

“Ex-actly!” John said, slamming down the glass on the table in pride and squeezing his eyes shut and forming his face into a woozy grin - clearly the alcohol was starting to take its toll. A grinning idiot and a fool besides himself with laughter, they were certainly a sight for sore eyes. Sebastian’s expression turned into a scowl as my brow furrowed and I tried to analyse him, (strangely) having great difficulty.

“Oh who am I kidding?” John cried out, resting his right elbow on the side of the bar and heavily placing his face into his palm. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! They just don’t seem to stay with me! One minute, one minute they’re here and the next… they’ve gone - and I nearly got one  _killed_ once!”

“SSShhhhh, come on... come on, that was  _one time_!” Stamford started, throwing an arm round John and leaning on him. I couldn’t help but snigger at that remark. “There’s nothing wrong with you, mate! Look, LOOK! We’ll go, we’ll go right now and we’ll go and find you a lovely lady, with all those curves and blonde hair and...”

“Nice arse...”

“Nice arse and all yeah, nice arse and all...” Stamford finished his drink and smashed the glass down on the side, rising from his barstool uneasily. “Sue has a nice arse!” he exclaimed. John slumped forward.

“Come on, mate, let’s go find yourself a woman!” Stamford announced, pulling John to his feet and letting out a ‘Wheeyy!’ as the two set off, one arm round the other’s shoulders to steady themselves as they ‘danced’ across the floor. I was left alone with Sebastian, at last.

I didn’t move; neither did he. We had entered a mêlée of patience and obstinacy, challenging each other by silence and staring, to see who would give in to the other first. In the end, time was passing by and I realized I only had a short while before John and Stamford stumbled on back and interrupted our moment with their exaggerated, strident sob stories about John’s failed attempts to try to impress the opposite gender, which I can only _assume_ would be failures. From then after, the chance would be gone.

I slowly rose from my bar stool, smoothed down my front and straightened my jacket with a sharp, purposeful tug – not taking my eyes from his aggressive watch. I took slow, short steps until I was two barstools down, where John had previously sat. I raised my chin slightly, never disrupting our stare, never unmasking my blank poker-face, before I slowly took my seat next to him.

“Drink?” I asked.

“Parched.” He replied.

I could now analyse him better from this range. I noticed several things that I failed to acknowledge before, most likely because I was thrown off from the lack of lighting – I would have definitely recognised these factors if the room was bright or even dimly lit – and these were the size of his strong but thin arms and slim, sturdy legs in proportion with his torso, which were both extremely long compared to the man’s body. Everything about Sebastian was lean, but sturdy and well built. His stocky shoulders told me that the man, in his late 30s, clearly participated regularly in physical sport and his large palms, along with extensive bony fingers, screamed that everything that he did, he did with a frightening scale of precision and accuracy. He had a dangerous feel about him which was augmented by his soulless grey eyes, thinned into narrow, menacing slits in his head, barely wide enough to see his irises. Tall, slim, agile and strong… the makings of a perfect criminal – that was just my deduction.

As I raised an arm and opened my mouth to call for another round of drinks, excusing myself of just one for this once, Sebastian rose slightly from his seat and called out to another bartender down the opposite end of the bar, whose face lit up as he saw Sebastian before strolling over to shake his hand warmly.

The bartender was one I observed earlier. Mid 40s, three young children, a large dog, recently divorced and also recently left prison, most likely assault or theft by the state of his hands and temples. The two engaged in light conversation, Sebastian flashing him large smiles and cracking small jokes – all of which had a very false aura indeed. The bartender then went away, poured two whiskeys and was back in front of us in a second. He nodded a friendly gesture at me and he was gone.

“Very observant. You even noticed my favourite drink.” I complimented Sebastian sardonically, raising the glass slowly to my lips. Sebastian’s eyes thinned still, his orbits now looking almost completely black from the shadows being casted by his prominent brow. We took a sip of our drink in unison, with his eyes still fixed on me. I gazed at the wall behind the bar, observing the different bottles of alcohol which sat nestled in small steel holders. My eyes wandered around the nightclub, desperately trying to find something to establish the conversation between us so that I could gather the information I needed.

“So…” I said, elongating the word purposefully and raising my eyebrows for effect. We placed the drink down on the bar again at similar times, his glass slightly emptier than mine. I looked at him expectantly. “Smile much?”

“Don’t play that nice guy act with me.” He snapped.

I smiled slightly.  _Finally. A Reaction_. I raised the whiskey to my lips again, taking a small swill to wet my mouth before putting the glass lightly back down on the bar, making a sarcastic and overly exaggerated expression of confusion. If the blank expression didn’t work at the start, this was finally getting me some results.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know who you are.”

“Well… who doesn’t?”

This seemed to infuriate the irate man, causing him to take another violent swig of the drink and scowling at me through the bottom of the glass. I took another slow sip at the same time.

“You’re rather standoffish for someone who claims to know me.” I announced. “Have we met before?”

His thin lips curved into a malicious, sly smirk. His eyes glinted.

“No. But I really wish we had.” The evil look in his eyes grew into what only could be described as a malevolent, predatory stare. I’ve seen this look many times from countless different people, most of them criminals but once or twice from Lestrade, but never had it been so intense. Confused, my chin rose slightly as I looked down at him.

“We’ve only just met then and yet you seem… pretty resentful with me to say the least.”

His sneer slithered further across his face. Suddenly, there was a great, crashing sound and a yelp of pain. My head snapped to the direction of the call, one name crossed my mind.

_John?_

Groups of people obscured my vision from where the sound originated. I craned my neck up and leaned on the bar to give myself a better view. I finally spotted John on the other side of the night club, sat on the edge of the table and chatting to an attractive, young woman… not going so well judging by the sneer on her face and her negative body language. I looked back at Sebastian. He looked strangely satisfied.

“Now, I wouldn’t worry about that Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” He said before we rose our glasses to our mouths and sipped the final drops of our drinks together. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the future.”

We placed the empty glasses down on the bar. He rose from his seat, threw me a last threatening stare and walked away as I followed him with my eyes. I was then distracted by two fellows who were hobbling their way towards my direction, knocking into Sebastian as they did so. Sebastian held the larger man of the two at arm’s length, must’ve been saying goodbye, and then shook his hand. He then moved to the smaller man of the two and did the same. The two then stumbled their way over to the bar, when I confirmed my suspicions, it was John and Stamford.

Stamford took a seat next to me, practically collapsing onto the bar. I watched Sebastian. Sebastian watched me. I could see out of the corner of my eye that John’s head was actively moving from me, to Sebastian and back again.

“So… you’ve, you’ve made a new friend then?” John mumbled, with a bitter tone in his voice as he leant on the bar very close beside me. I couldn’t take my eyes off Sebastian. There was something about him; something very uneasy that alarmed every fibre in my body. I watched as he walked towards the fire door, tampered with the control box placed on the wall besides it and turned back round to look at me as he pushed the door open with barely any vigour.

He formed his right hand into a fist, raised the thumb and brought his hand slowly up to his neck. He dragged his thumb carefully across his neck, slitting his throat with his nail.

“…Something like that.” I replied. Finally, Sebastian nodded sinfully and disappeared into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

_John_

I had practically sobered up by the time we reached Baker Street; however I still can’t remember everything about that night. Little spur of the moment memories come back to me sometimes, hitting me in the face when I try and recall the events, but there’s nothing solid there, it’s all a bit of a haze.

So for this, I apologise for my limited detail about that night when we returned back to the flat, only certain recollections are prominent in my mind.

Sometimes I get this memory, or maybe it was a dream – I’m not entirely sure, of Sherlock taking me in his arms and waltzing with me through the club. I’ve been too afraid to ask him if this was actually real, because if it turned out to just be my imagination… that would be the last thing I wanted, him knowing that I had these ‘fantasies’ about him. It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve had, many times I would be doing something or more often than not I’d be in the shower and my thoughts would stray towards Sherlock. Some are merely platonic but other times they would be  _extremely_  sexual, but I’ll spare you the details. To be honest, I don’t understand what they mean.

As I was saying, we arrived back at 221b pretty late; I can’t remember exactly what time, but I do recall falling out of the cab and practically collapsing on top of Sherlock as he jumped out of the cab and opened the door for me. He wrapped his slender right arm around my waist to prop me up onto his side, then using the other hand he positioned my left arm round his shoulders and held my hand as it dangled loosely over his left shoulder. For a man of his skinniness, he has a lot of strength. My head was spinning, I had far too much to drink that night – I definitely shouldn’t have taken advantage of Sherlock paying for the drinks, but when a free bar is there, who am I to turn down such an appealing offer? And this is Sherlock we’re talking about; the only time when he gives is when he’s expecting something in return. He was clearly out to make a point that night, still not entirely sure what though.

Then suddenly I was upstairs in the dark flat, laid on the sofa tucked underneath a thin, white sheet – I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Sherlock’s. It was dark, silent and deadly still. As I awoke, I felt the surge of a headache coming on. I must’ve passed out or fell asleep, I can’t even begin to remember how I got there. Regretting the choice to sit up as fast as I did, I rose a hand up to my face and squeezed my eyes together and let out a huge sigh. Thank God I was sat in darkness, not that I had much choice – it was still pitch black outside.

I raised my head to look around the front room for Sherlock and I remember looking at the clock, about 2:30am.

“Sherlock?” I called out, removing the sheet from my body to swing my legs round so I was slumped forward, elbows on knees and head in hands. I then realised I was now in my pyjamas.... Hang on a second?

I looked at the table that stood next to the couch; a glass of water and painkillers.

What was this?

“Sherlock?”

A familiar face, expression deep with curiosity, appeared behind the arc to the kitchen. His lean figure then walked towards me, holding a hot drink in his hands. Coffee. He offered it to me. I stared at him.

“Coffee? Painkillers, a glass of water, tucking me in  _and_ putting me into my pyjamas?” I questioned.

“Thought you might need a little assistance.” He shrugged, as if it was nothing.

“What have you done to it?” I said, as I reluctantly took the coffee and sniffed it hesitantly. He frowned as he took a seat in his armchair, watching me intently with a big expression of disappointment plastered across his face.

“I haven’t done anything to it. Just drink it.” He snapped.

I seemed surprised at his sharp tone, but I did as he said of course. I sipped the coffee slowly, staring into the mug to try and ignore the close, fixated gaze Sherlock had upon me. Suddenly, I could feel a sudden sharp twinge in my head. My face squirmed with pain as I placed the mug on the floor and held my head in my hands – and before I know it, Sherlock was beside me, his right hand clasped around my left wrist. I looked up to see him kneeling down next to me, eyes wide with worry. God, those eyes. Those cheekbones. His face illuminated by the dim light pouring in through the window. He’s just... so...

“John are you all right?” he whispered, his beautiful fingers curling around tighter, with his index and middle fingers pushing down on the outside of my wrist harder than his other fingers. He slowly lowered my hand down onto my leg, my palm facing the ceiling. I recognised what he was doing. Was he seriously taking my pulse? Why?

“Y...yeah I’m fine, I just need some painkillers.” I managed to gush out. I raised my free arm to stretch for the painkillers just as Sherlock jumped up, grabbed the box and the glass of water and was then back down in front of me, kneeling once more. His sheer speed was shocking sometimes.

“Thanks...” I said, looking extremely confused now. “I can get them myself you know.”

He ignored me, opened the box and popped a painkiller out of the packet, holding it delicately between his pinched bony fingers.

“Open.” He ordered. Leisurely, he moved his fingers towards my mouth as my lips seem to part automatically. I couldn’t believe he was doing this. A wave of impulse surged through my body as his fingers brushed past my bottom lip, the feeling then to only cruelly heighten by the tips of his fingers touching my tongue briefly as he set the pill onto my tongue. He practically had me gagging for more. Sherlock drew his fingers from my mouth and picked up the glass of water, without removing his gaze from my lips. I swear my whole body was quivering. Forming my hands into fists to hide my sweating palms, I pushed my hands deep into the sofa in frustration.

Sherlock then raised his free hand up and ran his long, gracious fingers through my hair, caressing the nape of my neck. Christ, this was getting too much. The sensation of his cool fingers against my hot skin was just blissful.

For a moment there, I was just putty in his hands. He could have done what he wanted with me. I had just simply melted into submission, allowing him to control me as he wished.

Sherlock tipped my head back slightly and held me still as he gradually rose the glass up to my lips and tilted it so that the chilled refreshment poured into my mouth. I sealed my lips around the rim of the glass, closing my eyes to again divert my sight from Sherlock’s watchful gaze, and drunk a mouthful, swallowing the liquid and pill with it. Once I had finished drinking the whole glass of water, or more likely when Sherlock had finished nursing me, he picked up the mug of coffee and placed both that and the empty glass onto the table and walked into the kitchen. Just leaving me.

I sat there. Blinking a few times. Mouth open like a goldfish. Looking like a total idiot.

What the hell just happened?

Was that bloody real?

In no time at all, Sherlock strode back into the living room, his dressing gown swishing like a cape behind him, as he stopped at his armchair when he spotted me watching him. He looked surprised when he saw me.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

It took me a while to process the question.

“I don’t just fall asleep at the drop of a hat, Sherlock.”

He stood and stared at me for a while. I returned the stare.

“You’re not even going to try?” he finally said. I looked at him with scepticism as I hauled myself from the sofa and onto my feet, attempting to go to my bedroom. The room immediately felt like it was slanted, the world had been tilted and the walls started spinning. Christ, how much did I _have?!_

I immediately misplaced my footing, stumbled and managed to fall forwards, into Sherlock’s arms - _again._ He helped me back onto the sofa and laid me down, pulling the sheet back over me. I covered my face with my hands, trying to hide my embarrassment; I was so staggeringly drunk that I couldn’t even stand up without Sherlock having to help me back into bed. How did I even get this drunk? And why was he so persistent with me this evening?

“Sleep, John.” He said as I placed my hands down by my sides, propping myself up against the arm of the couch as I watched him. He walked over to his chair, lifted his violin to his neck and held the bow in the other hand and then turned to face me. He came close, standing by the sofa and began to place a quiet, soothing, slow melody that filled the room like a ghost.

I turned onto my side and gazed at him as he swayed around the living room, moving with his elongated, gentle swoops of his bow, stooping low at the lower pitch parts and straightening up, almost onto his toes, at the higher the pitch. It was beautifully played, not too loud, not too fast, just... brilliant. I soon felt my eyelids growing heavy as he repeated the piece, this time adding new parts into the tune. It was almost heavenly listening to that. Then, just before I fell asleep, I heard the music finish on a long, heavy low note and Sherlock moved towards where I was laying.

I was curious as to what he was doing, but tiredness had taken its toll and my eyelids were shut tight. I took the last yawn as I turned over onto my other side and I pulled the blanket up towards my face. There, I felt a weightiness settle itself on the sofa. I could feel Sherlock as he sat down on the edge of the sofa bed, slotting himself nicely between the bend in my leg, between my calf and my thigh. I was intended to sit up and shove him off the bed; after all there wasn’t much room anyway.

But then he started playing again. Slow, peaceful and distant. And as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear him humming quietly, humming to the tune of his mantra.


	6. Chapter 6

_John_

I woke the next day, early afternoon, with a throbbing headache, sun pouring in through the windows in an empty flat. Again. Sherlock was probably out or downstairs with Mrs Hudson since I couldn’t hear any petri-dishes clashing about or sighs of deep disappointment in the kitchen. I sat up and leant against the arm of the sofa and looked around vaguely, with heavy tired eyes. My memories were still slightly hazy about the previous night. My eyes drifted to the side table, the water in the glass had been filled again and the tablets were still there, the packet lying on top of the cardboard container. Then it hit me.

Suddenly, I felt the familiar pang in my heart and the surge in my stomach. Why did Sherlock do that? I mean... really, Sherlock wouldn’t have even poured me a glass of water let alone get the tablets out of the medicine cabinet. Was he feeling guilty? And why do I feel this way? Even the mention of Sherlock’s name gives me... this, this feeling. I know what it is; I know exactly what it is. But why Sherlock? There were so many questions reeling around in my head as I just kept thinking about him - not such a great idea when you’ve just woken up with a particularly bad hangover and a banging headache.

I gently eased myself from the sofa and stood on my feet, wavering slightly but keeping my balance. I felt a great, throb of pain in my back – always what happens when I sleep on a sofa. Great, now my back was killing me too. I placed a hand on the small of my back and pulled my shoulders backwards in discomfort, whilst wiping my face down with my other hand. Sighing heavily, I took another painkiller and gradually walked into the kitchen, switching on the kettle and pulling out one of Sherlock’s tea cups from the cupboard, since he hadn’t even had the courtesy to wash up my mug – but who am I kidding, I’m still shocked at what happened the previous night, the fact that Sherlock cared for me and... Well... yeah. I then walked into the living room and took a seat in my armchair, unfolding the newspaper to read the dramatic headline...

_“Rich, Dead and Homeless”_

I loved the one-liners. They always caught my attention. There were 2 enlarged pictures of what seemed like CCTV imagery below the three words. The first one was of a woman walking down a darkened, narrow alleyway passing very close to a heap on the floor leant against a brick wall of a building. The second picture was then of the same woman crouching over the heap, as if inspecting it. It wasn’t a great picture since it must have been captured at night - very fuzzy and all - but you could distinctly make out the outlines of the character. My eyes trailed down to the small paragraph underneath.

_“More than £900k worth of diamonds have recently been reported stolen from some of London’s top jewellers, including Heming, Michael Rose and Hirsh – which between them have admitted to all of their biggest, and most expensive, diamond rings being stolen - the diamonds only to be found days later, but embedded into the flesh of nearby homeless people. Lucy Porter, 21, spotted the first victim lying in a pool of blood at 11:30pm. Post-mortem examination confirms that the ‘bullet’ that killed the man, who still remains unidentified, was none other than the precious stone reported stolen from nearby jewellers. There have been up to 6 other victims, all found scattered around Central London and all with similar injuries – shot in the chest from long range. Detective Inspector Lestrade is on the case...”_

_So that’s where Sherlock is_ , I immediately thought. _Funny it’s taken him this long to come to Sherlock for advice. It’s normally solved before the journalists have had time to even know what’s going on._

I folded the paper back up, placed it on the table and headed upstairs to my bedroom to get changed, deciding to skip the tea. I sorted myself out with a change of clothes and a quick shave before I went downstairs and searched for my phone.

“Mrs Hudson?” I called, looking under the cushions of the armchair after ransacking under the papers on the desk. I heard her open her flat door and scurry upstairs. I turned around to greet her.

“Oh hello John, dear. I was just off out in a minute to get some more milk, would you like anything?”

“Oh, uhh, yeah some more paracetamol would be great thanks and maybe some biscuits,” I replied, picking up my coat which was slung over my chair. I started rooting through the pockets.

“Okay, but just this once - I’m not your housekeeper remember.”

I smiled slightly and pulled out my phone. No texts, of course.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said immediately before she had a chance to leave. “Do you know where Sherlock’s gone?”

I turned around to look at her. She held her hands together at her stomach and tilted her head a little, smiling endearingly at me. I wish she wouldn’t do that. I wish people wouldn’t do that. I’m fed up of that look.

“He’s on that case in the paper, isn’t he?”

I looked back down at my phone.

_Compose new message._

“He saw it and rushed straight out. In an awful mood when he left, muttering all sorts under his breath and swishing his coat around like he does when he’s angry and such...”

Her voice trailed off into one of her world famous monologues.

_WHERE ARE YOU?_

“...Do you miss him when he’s not here?”

_Send._

I looked up at her. She looked embarrassed at my reaction; my face must’ve been more startled than I had thought. She stood silently for a few seconds, ringing her hands together. Suddenly, she pretended to spot something on the desk, scurried over and straightened up and organised some papers. I watched as her eyes darted around the room awkwardly. I didn’t really have any reply, because I guess my response just spoke for itself. Before I could open my mouth – wider – to explain my reaction, ‘ _I’m not gay’_ sprung to mind, my thoughts were quickly interrupted by a vibrating in my hand.

_UNLOCK_

_1 New Message._

_-Open-  
Sherlock Holmes: _

_Scotland Yard. I take it you’ve seen the news in the papers. I’m having words with Lestrade about his failed attempt to bring this case to my attention. How else did he expect it to be solved, by himself and the power of the police? Please._  
Get down here in 5.   
SH

“I’ll... umm... I’ll be off then and I’ll get you your painkillers...” Mrs Hudson said as she turned towards me in hope for an answer.

“No, no, you’re all right Mrs H, I’m off out myself. I’ll pick up the milk too.” I interrupted as I picked up my coat and slipped it on.

“You off after him again?” She giggled. I looked at her again, this time willing to play along. It would make it a lot less awkward for the both of us.

“Well, you know how it is. He says ‘jump’ and I say ‘how high’.” I shrugged as I managed to struggle out a chuckle. “I’ll see you later, semi-skimmed?”

“Skimmed, I’m on a diet.”

“Oh, please. You’re withering away. You don’t need to lose any weight.”

She beamed at me and started giggling ridiculously. Oh God, no. I was discussing weight with a woman. I needed to go. Now. Feeling my masculinity start to slowly slip away from me, I gave her a brief nod, a quick goodbye and marched downstairs. Looks like there’s finally going to be something interesting going on, interesting for Sherlock at least. I hoped that maybe this will be able to distract him and to distract me and possibly, hopefully, take my mind off things.


	7. Chapter 7

_John_

“Why didn’t you tell me about this case?! It’s a simple enough question!!” I heard Sherlock shouting from Lestrade’s office. I looked in through the glass panel to see Lestrade sat in his chair, legs up on the desk (usual position for him) and waving his hands at Sherlock, who was standing on the opposite side of his desk and looming over Lestrade like some great shadow. He had clearly just risen out of his chair in frustration - wouldn’t be surprised - and slammed his hands down on the desk.

I tapped on the glass door quietly to break the silent I’m-going-to-skin-you-alive look Sherlock was throwing Lestrade.

“You’re late.” Sherlock snapped, throwing himself round to stand in the corner of the room after he acknowledged I was there, as I pushed open the door with raised eyebrows. He was unbelievably angry.

“Alright John?” Lestrade said, rising from his desk to shake my hand. I smiled and mouthed ‘What’s happening?’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.

“Sherlock’s just decided to storm into my office and demand to know about the case in the papers.” Lestrade said loudly as he stared at Sherlock and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“No, I didn’t storm in.” Sherlock spat, turning round and striding up to Lestrade – almost like he was squaring him up. “I walked in. Easily done. It’s not like you have any sort of high level security here stopping anyone from coming into your office.”

“Yeah but still, you don’t just come _walking_ in and start shouting the odds at me.”

I took a comical step backwards to try and ease the tension. Failed attempt.

“Well, all I wanted to know was why you didn’t tell me about the case?!” Sherlock was shouting now. “How else were you going to expect to solve this case - on your _own_? A bit far out of your league don’t you think?!”

Lestrade folded his arms. Oh dear.

“Oh is that right?”

“Yes! In fact, _you_ haven’t solved a case in months if I remember rightly because _I’ve_ been doing them all for you! Not that I’m complaining or anything, I enjoy it. And now, now you just stop telling me about new cases? Why?”

They were both sneering at each other now like a couple of hungry stray dogs. Unbelievable, to say the least.

“WHY?” Sherlock barked.

“Sherlock, calm down.” I said, raising a hand to reach out for him. I’ve only ever seen him this wound-up a handful of times. It was starting to alarm me. He brushed away my hand and with a furious sigh he stormed over to the window and stared out between the spaces of the horizontal blinds. I looked at Lestrade, who had now begun shaking his head.

“Do you want to know the reason why I’m not telling him anything right now?” He said to me, irritation in his tone. “It’s because I don’t like arrogant show-offs like him _poncing_ in here and telling me how to do my job!”

“Well I’ve done it numerous times in the past. Why would this time be any different?” Sherlock spat, wobbling his head from side to side quickly to make the mocking even harsher. I stood and stared at the back of his head until he turned round. I gave him a strong look of disappointment and he just looked at me, his expression completely blank, the one he does when he thinks he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“You can be such a dick sometimes, Sherlock, you know that?” I said. Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Lestrade looked at Sherlock. Damn, this was tense. Guess it was going to have to be me to be the big man, again.

“Apologise.” I ordered, folding my arms across my chest. Sherlock raised his eyes in surprise and stared at me; his eyes seemed to light up a little. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lestrade smirk slightly. I nudged him hard with my elbow – that shut him up.

“Do it.” I commanded again, making sure my tone was sharp and firm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoved his hands into his pocket and stared up at the ceiling like a frustrated teenager.

“Sorry.” He huffed at long last. A huge grin spread across Lestrade’s face, I could tell he was chuffed to bits. Now, I bet you anything he was going to relish in that moment.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Lestrade said, rocking on the balls of his feet to his toes - that grin still plastered across his face. Sherlock scowled at him. Then there was a period of silence. “Now since you’ve calmed down,” Lestrade started again. “I’ll tell you the real reason why I didn’t tell you about the case.”

Lestrade strolled back round to his desk and resumed his typical position, picking up his Starbucks coffee from his desk and taking a sip. I sat down on one of the overly uncomfortable steel chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk and looked up at Sherlock. He didn’t return my eye-contact but came and stood directly behind my chair, bringing his hands behind his back and holding them there.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for the past week but you were _‘busy’_.” Lestrade started, swirling the coffee around in the cardboard cup and awkwardly staring into the drink. He looked up at Sherlock, pity in his eyes. “I’m sorry mate, but you’ve been replaced.”

I didn’t even think about looking at or waiting for Sherlock’s response. After hearing that, I had decided to react for him.

“Replaced? Wait, what?” I argued, leaning forward in my chair. “How the hell can you replace _him?_ He’s bloody brilliant!”

“John, don’t start...”

“Don’t start what? Sticking up for him? If he’s not going to say it, I will. You know this is his life, Lestrade. You do know that don’t you? This is what he lives for. You can’t just turf him out and pick up another one... how can you? How can you find another... another Sherlock? He’s a _consulting_ detective! He _invented_ the job! He’s the only one in the world!!”

I was fuming by this point; on my feet, waving my arms around – bloody mental.

“Well no, he’s not.”

“What?!”

“One of our boys on the force, Steve, said that he has a mate who researches crimes for a living – not a Private Detective though, because he doesn’t do anything with the information he finds. He said it was like the guy’s hobby.” Lestrade said. He was being far too calm and cool for my liking. “So we sent Steve round there just to see what he’s up to – see if he’s found anything of importance and basically, the guy just sent Steve back with most of his information - and he’s right.”

“Right... right about what?”

“Where we can find the bodies. I don’t know who he is though, but Steve just comes in sometimes with these little theories and papers that this guy just gives us, but they all turn out to be correct.”

I stood there, staring at Lestrade. It was like being stabbed in the back.

“But he hasn’t told you where you can find your _man_ though, has he?” A deep, sonorous voice muttered behind me. Lestrade looked up from his coffee cup at him, mouth slightly open. I looked at Sherlock, whose lips were curved into a slightly half-smile.

He observed Lestrade’s reaction. “Oh, so he hasn’t then?” Sherlock asked sardonically as his left eyebrow quirked up.

“How the hell can you possibly know where to find him by looking at the news in the paper?” Lestrade retaliated, his expression deep with disbelief – though I could see that he still trusted Sherlock’s judgement, I certainly did – I always have. Sherlock slyly grinned again as he swished his coat round, flicked up the coat collar and swooped out of Lestrade’s office to disappear round the corner. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Not this again.

I briefly stole a glance at Lestrade who was wallowing in astonishment.

“So you have absolutely no idea who this guy is? Your source?” I asked after I had looked around the room, watched two unfamiliar detectives – each carrying a stack of heavy folders – collide, resulting in a massive explosion of papers and then weighed up my options on the next few minutes. 

Lestrade looked at me and shook his head with a frown.

“And... you’re alright with that?” I said.

“Makes no difference to me where we get our facts from just so long as we catch this bastard who’s doing this.” He replied with a shrug. I stood and nodded once, thinking things over. Who was this guy, the one who was taking Sherlock’s job? Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps striding towards the office. I looked round to see Sherlock swing on the doorframe to the office and stare at me, disappointed, curious and annoyed all at the same time.

“John? Are you coming or what? We don’t have all day you know.”

And that was it. He strode off down the corridor and was gone again. It was like being ordered around by a small child. I rolled my eyes, sighed and looked at Lestrade, who started grinning like an idiot. He looked at me and I gave him my not-this-again look, which only caused him to start chuckling.

“Better you than me, mate.” He said. “I don’t see how you can live with him.”

I shrugged, turned around and marched out of the door, thinking exactly the same thing.


	8. Chapter 8

_John_

It must have been quite late evening, around 7-8pm, by the time we arrived at Picadilly Circus on the tube – oddly enough Sherlock didn’t opt for the decision of travelling in a taxi, don’t ask me why. It was a busy night of course; lights flashing, car engines revving, the occasional horn and people flooding the streets like rats.

After our brief visit to Scotland Yard, we returned back to the flat and within about half an hour Sherlock insisted on visiting his ‘mind palace’. Again. Unbelievable. Of course, this meant that I had to leave the flat – after much protest – and find something to entertain myself for a couple of hours. I’d assume that he was thinking about that criminal in the papers – I had even tried to peek at his internet history on his laptop before I left, only to find the sodding thing had a password and with this being Sherlock’s computer, there was no way even a cryptographer could have guessed it.

I left, returned about 6 to make some dinner – beans on toast as neither of us could’ve been bothered to go shopping, oh who am I kidding there was no way _Sherlock_ was going to go and get the food, I was just… distracted – to find him buried in the sofa, in his pyjamas with his face lit up from the blaring light of the laptop screen. I can honestly say I don’t think I saw him blink once when I walked from the front door to the kitchen. Once more he didn’t even acknowledge my presence but I decided to just leave him to it. I was starving.

Beans in the pan, then on the hob for a good 10 minutes, bread in the toaster, then on the plate and then decoratively pour the beans on top. I put a plate besides Sherlock along with a cup of tea and sat down in my armchair to eat mine. I had managed to eat 1 slice of slightly burnt toast and most of the beans before suddenly, Sherlock slapped the laptop shut and jumped up out of the sofa – doing so almost simultaneously. Living with Sherlock, I’ve gotten used to having the little things he does make me jump, but that scared the shit out of me - my plate nearly jumped sky high out of my lap.

I watched as he glided down the corridor and into his bedroom, pulling off his t-shirt over his head before he even reached the hallway. I’ve got to say, his torso looked... just fantastic. I could feel my face heat up when I saw his bare chest. He threw the shirt behind him and onto the living room floor before he reached his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” I asked, placing my plate on the coffee table as I rose out of my seat to pick up Sherlock’s pyjama shirt. Smelt like his cologne.

“Get changed, John. Something casual but dark. We need to blend in tonight.” I heard him yell as I reached his bedroom door, absentmindedly placing a hand onto the door knob and gripping it tight. I don’t know what I was thinking, going to invade his privacy like that, he would never do that – oh no, wait he has. Several times. Once when I was in the shower for God’s sake. _Vatican_ bloody _Cameos_. That’s only ever paid off once.

“What do you mean?” I said through the door, as I went to turn the handle, but then feeling a sharp twist in my grip. Sherlock swung open the door and stood inches from my face. He was wearing his usual attire: black trousers, black shirt and his coat, collar turned up of course.

“We’re going after our man.” He said as a playful smirk spread across his face. He stepped closer to me. Jesus.

“Our… our man?” I stuttered, my God this was embarrassing. I could feel my face getting hotter and hotter and that churning in my stomach was unbearable. He gave me a look of surprise and slight confusion.

“Yes John. Come on, keep up.” He swiftly moved me aside as he strode down the hallway and back into the living room. “Our man, the bloke in the papers causing all this chaos with shooting people with diamonds – odd method, but nevertheless...” I followed him involuntarily, practically lapping at his heels. He stopped dead and promptly turned around to face me as I almost walked into him. I watched as his eyes flickered from side to side as he analysed me.

“Hmm, I guess what you’ll be wearing will be fine if you don’t plan on changing...”

“W-wait...That’s Lestrade’s case isn’t it?” I interrupted, shaking my head slightly.

He made a quick, mocking noise of exasperation before he spoke. “Oh please. Lestrade won’t know where to find him; he can barely use a mobile phone for Pete’s sake. And besides, proving him wrong would be much more fun.”

“Proving Lestrade wrong?”

“That his other source is better than me.  He seems to think that this new source has all the information that I wouldn’t be able to obtain. I’m going to prove him wrong. And you’re coming with me.”

Pang. Again.

“Oh, will I?”

I couldn’t help myself.

His chin lifted slightly as he looked down at me, eyeing me like an eagle would with prey.

“Only unless you intended on staying here, alone, with nothing to do but to count the hours until I arrive back.”

He’s got a point. That was probably what I would end up doing anyway.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smiled - his cheeks hollowing out with the shadows consuming his face.

“So you’re coming then?”

“Of course.”

Then, he was a instant blur of the spin of his coat as he swished round and marched out of the flat, his coat trailing behind him like a cape.

“Then the game is on!” His deep voice bellowed through the flat, a tinge of excitement and adventure in his tone.

I stepped out the flat after him; about to hail a cab but then realising he had strode down the road a good couple of yards in front of me. I called his name several times before running after him as he didn’t respond. I tried to get some sort of information out of him of whereabouts we were heading, but he was silent – just as he is in a cab. It must be his rule for journeys, just complete and utter silence. We took the Bakerloo line from Baker Street to Piccadilly Circus, arriving in minutes. The tube was quite quiet which was unusual but I could see Sherlock’s discomfort as we took our grotty seats next to a couple of businessmen and some tourists and waited for our stop.

We strode out of the tube station and into the night, surrounded by swarms of bustling people. Piccadilly was full of life. Sherlock sighed contently and rubbed his gloved hands together, smiling.

“Now then. Follow me John.”

And then he was gone. He walked; although he was so fast he was close to running, into the crowd and disappeared amongst the people. I craned my neck up to look over the countless different heads as I tried to hurriedly follow him, or at least walk in the direction he went. Suddenly, my arm was yanked fiercely to one side and I was pulled into an alcove of a building. It was Sherlock. He gripped me tight by my arm as we stood in the bay, which I soon realised was a shop window with the shutters pulled down... early closure? In Piccadilly? I watched his eyes dance around as his gaze penetrated through the crowd.

“You really think we’re going to find the criminal... in Piccadilly Circus?” I said sarcastically.

“Not here... we need to go.”

And he was off again. I stayed close behind this time, not taking my eyes off the back of Sherlock’s head. There were times where I just wanted to reach out and grab his hand so I wouldn’t lose him, but I couldn’t. We weaved through hundreds of people as he led me out of Piccadilly Circus and down Regent Street, cutting through several alleyways before appearing out on New Bond Street. The street wasn’t as busy, but still there were groups of people here and there wandering around.

“Do you want to tell me... what, what we’re doing here exactly?” I panted; we were almost jogging through parts of the journey. “I really can’t see a wanted criminal bursting out from flipping New Bond Street. Can you?”

No answer.

He swept the street with his concentrated gaze before walking onwards again. I followed, sighing heavily. We had reached the Burlington Arcade before we stopped. I looked around expectantly and quite sarcastically, starting to wonder how appealing staying at home would’ve been – it was freezing and dark and I was still hungry, that half portion of beans on toast had done nothing to satisfy me. Unexpectedly, I saw a dark figure emerge from the alleyway opposite us, approaching us very quickly it seemed. It was running towards us. I automatically positioned myself sideways on from the figure, standing close to Sherlock, as it ran at us and rushed under a streetlight. I caught a glimpse of the figure; a woman. She darted onto the road, dangerously not looking as a taxi almost had to swerve out of control as the cabby slammed down on the breaks. Sherlock took a step forward, a small expression of concern on his face. She ran towards us and collapsed into Sherlock’s arms, who then instead of comforting the poor woman – who was crying painfully hard – held her at arm’s length and said,

“Where?”

“D...down... down the alley and... and turn left... then right... and keep going... just follow, follow...” Then she burst into tears again. “He’s dead!!”

Sherlock sprinted across the road, effortlessly gliding across the bonnet of a sleek black car with the breaks screeching ear splittingly loud, and he carried on running. He was soon swallowed by the darkness within seconds. I was torn between following him and staying with the distressed woman, but my heart cleared to prove stronger than my head. I held the woman up, comforted her as I placed my hands either side of her face as she gripped hold of my arms. She wouldn’t stop crying.

“Are you all right?” I asked. She eventually nodded a reply, still crying.

I pushed back her matted, dirty hair out of her face and took a good look at her, seeing if she had been hurt or not.  Her clothes were grimy and scraggy-looking and her trousers were clearly too big for her. She was wearing black trainers which were extremely worn down and she looked like she hadn’t had a proper shower in weeks. But who was I to judge? I’ve seen a lot worse. She didn’t seem to have any physical injuries but she was clearly wounded psychologically.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Y..yeah I’m fine... I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go...” she muttered, gripping hold of her mouth with her hand as her panic stricken hazel eyes stared at the floor. She was shaking her head violently and the tears were streaming down her face.

“Now, I don’t think that’s such a good idea...”

“You don’t understand... he’s dead... I have to go...”

And with that, she turned around and limped down the street, wrapping her arms around her. She soon broke out into a light jog and then turned into an alleyway and disappeared once more. I wanted to follow her, but I needed to go after Sherlock more. My heart was racing as I thought of him alone - and somewhere near him was the murderer. He could be in serious danger. I crossed the road, without almost causing a car crash, and ran into the alleyway, my feet pounding the pavement hard. I opted for the decision not to call out Sherlock’s name so that I wouldn’t put myself in further danger.

I darted down the alley until it came to a sort of T junction. I chose to turn right. I scaled along the path, trying to keep as close to the walls and as much of myself in the dark as possible. I kept running. I never slowed down.

Left. Right. Straight on. Right again. Left. Left again. I lost myself in a labyrinth of darkness. My breathe was getting heavy, quick and desperate as I found myself frantically thinking of the worse. What if Sherlock had already been found? What if he had been mugged? What if he was unconscious? What if he was dead?

“SHERLOCK!” I called out, regretting my decision to do so.

I clasped a hand tightly over my mouth as I pressed myself against an alcove in a cold brick wall. The next building was only metres from me. I slid down the wall and sat nestled between two looming, large skips, full to the brim of bin bags of rubbish. I squeezed my eyes shut as I tried to collect my thoughts together and think of the best way to find Sherlock. Out here I was vulnerable; I needed to find him... I needed to...

Then I heard footsteps.

And they were running.

My eyes flashed open. I jumped to my feet. God I wish I had bought my gun. I turned my head to the direction of the footsteps and ran after them. They drew closer and closer as I came to a T junction again. I stopped at the corner as I forced my back against the wall. All of a sudden, I saw a figure flash past my eyes. My reaction was shamefully delayed before I ran after them, my pace quickening. We ran through several dim streetlights that seemed to merge into one stream of light at the speed we were running. The figure frantically looked over its shoulder as I pursued it, getting faster and faster. Then, suddenly, I was jerked round a corner into another alleyway and was pinned up against the wall, having a hand gripped tightly over my mouth and a knee wedged skilfully in between my legs, to prevent myself from moving, before I had a chance to yell for help.

I immediately went for the throat, bringing both of my hands up to grip the man’s neck and to fight for what I was worth. He was desperately trying to choke out something as he fiercely shook my head from side to side with his hand. I tensed my neck to stop the shaking and I looked at the man’s face. I released my hands immediately.

Sherlock spluttered frantically as he released himself from me. He steadied himself against the opposite wall, taking deep, exaggerated breathes. When he was finally done, he turned around and stared at me, not amused in the slightest. Neither was I to be perfectly honest.

“Shit, Sherlock! You shouldn’t bloody do that! You scared the living shit out of me!” I whispered loudly, stepping away from the wall. He coughed and cleared his throat. I circled my arm round on its socket, bloody hell that hurt.

“Running after him was practically suicide you idiot! He had a gun! It was only a matter of time before he would’ve turned round and shot you!” he hissed, extremely breathless.

Panting heavily, I placed my hands on my knees and lurched forward allowing my head to drop. Sherlock leant back against the wall, lifting his head up and shutting his eyes. We remained like that for a couple of minutes, just heavily panting and trying to get our breath back.

All of a sudden, Sherlock jerked upright and focused on a spot on the floor. He was listening. I could barely hear anything. Just the same old familiar car sounds and the random motorbike. I stood erect and looked from Sherlock to the never ending alley behind us. I stared into the darkness, there was just nothing. I could feel Sherlock’s watch fixated on me so I turned my head to look at him. His gaze was penetratingly intense. His eyes seemed to be asking me something. I nodded briefly; prepared to do anything he was willing to ask me.

Then, out of nowhere, he took 3 giant paces towards me and pinned me against the wall with his body as he placed two hands either side of my head. I was shocked to say the least, my mouth gaping like a frigging goldfish. And with no hesitation at all, he pressed his dry lips against mine and kissed me, pushing his pelvis deeper into mine so that he had my back flat against the wall. His body globed over mine as I returned the kiss, deep and passionate, even darting in my tongue to touch his momentarily. I swear that sensation just sent me into a spasm of anticipation. Slowly, dreamily, my hands drifted up from by my sides and slid underneath Sherlock’s great coat to clasp around his hips. I could hear myself making all sorts of hot, breathless noises... Christ he was a good kisser, good? Great! And this is Sherlock, as far as I know he doesn’t even find this sort of thing appealing at all!

He kept on kissing me, the pressure varying from just a light smooch to an intensely passionate, deep, hard snog. I slipped my hands up from Sherlock’s hips to his waist, feeling the smooth satin shirt slide beneath my clenching fingertips. Instinctively, I placed my hands on the back of his waist and pulled him closer to me, so that our stomachs were pressed against one another. I heard a rush of footsteps speed past the alley, but I didn’t look up. I didn’t even acknowledge them until Sherlock immediately pulled away from me, looking slightly surprised. He took a step back and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Confused, I stared at him.

He looked around the alleyway awkwardly and I saw he had great difficulty in choosing a spot to look at. What the..?

“Right. Yes. Well. That was... uh... very good. Good. Yeah. Very persuasive.” He said, frowning a little and nodding constantly, but his eyes still showed the astonishment he really felt.

“What?” I said. And then I thought it over.

 _Oh, of course_.

“I’m sure he would’ve bought that. Yeah. Definitely.”

“That wasn’t...” _Real?_ I wanted to add. But it seemed he already knew what I was about to say.

“That was fine. Absolutely fine.” He walked up to the corner and peered around. “He’s gone. Good. He bought it then.” He turned and looked at me. I was still up against the wall. I just felt... broken.

“We’ve got to go, John.” He announced. I looked at him. He looked at me. I could see the almost pitiful expression he had in his eyes.

“Good... good acting by the way.”

And he looked at the floor and then he was gone. Disappeared round the corner.

As soon as he was out of sight, my chin fell into my chest. I felt limp and lifeless. Just... empty.

_“But I wasn’t acting.”_ I whispered. _“I wasn’t acting.”_


	9. Chapter 9

_John_

It was a whole 4 days before I even saw Sherlock again since the... incident... in the alleyway. Well I lie; I was gifted with very quick, very brief glimpses of him when he rushed from his bedroom, to fly down the corridor and glide down the stairs just as I called after him. That happened three times; all of which he ignored me and disappeared in a matter of seconds. I was left with the comfort of my armchair, the daily newspaper, my unwanted thoughts and feelings and of course Sherlock’s ‘old friend’ – the skull - which sat happy and content on the mantelpiece. I even found myself having a conversation with the thing at one point. Each day, Sherlock would lock himself in his bedroom during the day, ignoring me when I asked him if he wanted any tea or anything to eat or to tell him that I was off to bed. At night, he would then move into the living room to play his violin once I was upstairs and out of sight.

His songs were always very slow, but very complex and strangely dark. They would always put me to sleep easily but on the first night when the melody was particularly haunting, I found it difficult to calm my thoughts.

Since the kiss, I had found myself asking the same questions over and over again. Have I destroyed our friendship? Why was he avoiding me? Where was he going? Why did he look so shocked after he kissed me? Of course I knew the reason to this question - because he was doing it for a show and I meant it. I really meant it.

I was sat, hunched over and pretty tired, at the desk updating my blog about the milk going sour in the fridge and Sherlock’s failed attempts to go shopping, _again_ – I couldn’t find anything else half decent to write about and I dare put up _anything_ about the other night, unless I wanted the whole internet to blow up in my face – when I was unpicking my thoughts, when I finally realised what these feelings meant.

I must be falling for him. I have to be. This feeling just doesn’t occur in friends, not even close friends... does it? It’s almost as if every time I see him, smell him, hear his name, my stomach is just attacked by butterflies – and I hate it, because I know that he’ll never feel the same way about me. He can’t. He’s Sherlock. Sherlock can’t love.

And that’s what it is, isn’t it?

_Love._

I slammed my laptop shut and my head fell into my hands.

_Jesus Christ, John. What the hell are you doing? Falling for your flatmate, bad idea. Falling for Sherlock, worst idea possible. You stupid idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot._

I grabbed my keys and my jacket and headed for the door. We needed some more milk.

* * *

 

_Sherlock_

I had my taxi wait at the corner of the Baker Street whilst I watched John walk the opposite way from my position, most likely on his way to the supermarket. I could tell he had a lot on his mind judging by the way he was holding himself as he was walking. John always takes a very respectable posture when he walks but that time it was something different, a lot more resolute. His hands were formed into tight fists, his stride was quicker and stronger and the swinging of his arms was firmer – all of the signs he gave told me he was bothered to say the least, of what though I was unsure.

I had been busying myself with the case – so called ‘death by diamonds’ by Anderson, pathetic title from a pathetic man but of course Lestrade seemed to like it when I viewed my opinion – over the previous days, wanting to prove to Lestrade that I was in no way tolerating being ‘replaced’ by some anonymous source and also to distract myself. As I didn’t get a word in edgeways about how _I_ felt about being discarded, John made it pretty clear at Scotland Yard how _he_ felt, I turned up every day to share my views on the case which were, of course, always right and thus to prove choosing another phony consulting detective over myself was a clear mistake to be made. We visited the scenes of the crimes only briefly, but that’s all the time I needed, and I analysed everything including the bodies back at Bart’s – with (little) help from Molly.

The facts that I gathered were the following. There was a distinct pattern as to where the victims were killed, when they were killed and who the victims were. Each victim was a homeless person, meaning one less on my network each time one was murdered, taking residence in an exposed area of an alley way which was within a 2 mile radius of the same three jewellers - Heming, Michael Rose and Hirsh. Once I had gathered the facts from the information in the newspaper and those from Lestrade, I constructed a map of London in my mind as to where these same three jewellers appear nearing one another and it was only a matter of time before I came up with the possible solution as to where the next crime would strike. A regular time interval of 4-5 days occurred between each shooting and it had been 4 days since the last (though this date wasn’t announced in the papers for some bizarre reason), so I took no chances.

Burlington Arcade was the final place where each of the 3 jewellers reported an item of theirs stolen. So Burlington Arcade it was.

I was unable to obtain any information regarding the age/sex/characteristics of the criminal as the victims were killed from long range, shot with a diamond in the chest or head with a rifle. The criminal was very exact as to where they were shot, either between the eyes or right in the heart, each wound was found in more or less exactly the same spot, give or take a couple of millimetres. The last man near Piccadilly was shot between the eyes. I knew him too. He was one of my fastest.

We were just short of catching the criminal too, though the man John ran after that night certainly wasn’t him. The criminal shot the victims from long range, from the rooftops; he wouldn’t come down to examine the bodies and expose himself once he had found security up there. From his clear expertise, the gunman would have had sure confidence in that where he shot his prey they would have instantly died. I wasted precious seconds in observing the body; there was nothing useful to be scrutinized besides the wound - the diamond wedged deep into the man’s skull.

These were the facts I stated to Lestrade.

And what I gave Lestrade was more than what _anon_ had contributed. Obviously.

I gave him my initial prediction that the next murder will occur in 4 days near Hatton Garden. Lestrade set to assigning most of his police force to that area and that’s where I found the time best to leave.

 Once John had turned around the corner, I glided out of the cab and strolled into 221b. I walked up the stairs and entered the living room, took off my scarf and my coat and chucked them onto my armchair. I clasped my hands together smugly. _Well,_ I thought. _Looks like anonymous isn’t going to be in the picture very long._

Then my thoughts strayed to John as I walked past his armchair and into the kitchen. The kettle had just finished boiling. Strange. The trip to the supermarket must’ve been urgent if he skipped a coffee. I wondered how he felt after our scene in Piccadilly. He must’ve thought I’ve been avoiding him over the past 4 days; although, in a way, I have. After John’s overly-convincing act in the alley way, John has been one of the only things to remain solidly on my mind. And it scares me. Usually, my mind just races out of control through one thing to the next, inventing different plausible theories for everyday occurrences – such as where John leaves his keys - and turning everything into conundrums just so I can keep my mind occupied for that little bit longer and, more importantly, to stop myself from being bored. 

But John satisfies that craving, that longing from defying monotony. I think about John and suddenly my mind is at ease. I think about that heartfelt kiss he gave me in return and I instantly feel guilty, like I should have put more effort into my acting. I then decided I had to investigate why John acted so strongly in the way he did. I needed to discover what was happening. And for that, I needed a spreadsheet. 

* * *

 

_John_

I arrived back at 221b minutes later, arms heavy with plastic bags full of three pints of milk – one that I was supposed to get for Mrs Hudson almost a week back now and two for our neglected fridge, a couple of packets of biscuits, beans, cans of soup, loaf of bread, eggs, jar of honey and some jam – oh and some strawberries as they were 2 for 1, though neither me nor Sherlock actually eat fruit a hell of a lot, mostly takeaways and beans on toast. But hey, I fancied some strawberries.

I popped into Mrs H’s flat, dropped off her milk, which she was overly grateful for, then walked upstairs to find the living room empty again. I walked into the kitchen and stopped dead to see Sherlock, oddly enough, sat at the kitchen table on his laptop. _...Weird?_ The fact that he was on his laptop didn’t shock me, it was just the fact he was using it at the kitchen table. Sherlock has designated spaces for everything; it’s only ever the sofa or his desk where he uses his laptop. And I guess what shocked me the most was the fact he was actually there and not bloody hiding from me.

He shot a quick glance up at me and said nothing.

“Hello John,” I scoffed. “How nice to see you after these 4 long days of me being an anti-social bastard and not talking to you at all.” I stood with the shopping bags hung heavy by my knees. One side of his lip flicked into the curve of a smirk but it disappeared the second it was there.

Once I had said my little joke, I realised that it was actually quite in his nature to go days on end without talking at all. He’s had a couple of occasions where he just sat in the front room and did nothing - no talking, no eating, no sleeping – for up to a week. But there’s the problem, he was still _there._ This time round, it was different. He was out all the time, purposefully going out of his way to avoid me. It was almost as if I didn’t even exist.

I sighed. _Maybe I’m over thinking things._

I looked at the kitchen sides, all of the space was occupied by Sherlock’s chemistry equipment – stuff that I swear has just been sat there and never been used the whole time I’ve lived at 221b. Unbelievable. The hob would have to do then, shame it was directly behind Sherlock. I lifted the bags above his head as I squeezed past the chair, only to accidentally nudge his elbow with my thigh. He stopped typing acting really annoyed. I managed to choke back my laughter when he dramatically sighed and carried on with whatever he was... oh another spreadsheet. I couldn’t make out what it was about; too much coding with numbers and random letters everywhere. I moved along slightly just so I wasn’t wedged between his chair and the kitchen counter.

I picked up a tin of soup and put it leisurely in the cupboard. I picked up another tin of soup and put it in the cupboard. I picked up a tin of beans and put it in the cupboard. The tension at this point was hilarious. I was being so slow and deliberately annoying to get his attention... and it was working! I glanced over my shoulder as he stopped typing and lifted his head to stare at the wall, his fingers curling into fierce fists. I could see his jaw clench. _Cor._

I picked up another tin of beans and tossed it from one hand to the other before putting it very, _very_ slowly in the cupboard. I then pulled out the final two tins, put one carefully in the cupboard and then twisted the other tin round in my hand, observing the label sarcastically.

* * *

 

_Sherlock_

I threw my hands down on the table and pushed back my seat as I jumped up, grabbed the tin from him and slammed it into the cupboard. He was deliberately doing that do get on my nerves, I knew he was – how he was being so infuriating slow, it drives me insane!

I closed my eyes and sighed heavily, allowing myself to try and exasperate my aggravation. I was stood looming over John now, wedging myself between his body and the table in my attempt to speed things up a bit. I had his hips pushed flat against the kitchen countertop by my thighs as there was practically no other room otherwise as to squeeze as close to John as possible. When I opened my eyes, I saw John was taken back with surprise with both of his hands placed steadily either side of him, bracing himself on the kitchen countertop.

I looked over at the plastic bags. I stretched my arm towards the jars of jam and honey, leaning in almost mere inches from John’s face. I took each jar carefully in my hand and placed them one by one into the cupboard before shutting the door carefully. I drew back and stared into his eyes. I wanted to ask him what exactly happened to him in the alleyway, what was it that made him perform the way he did. I may not be an expert in love, but it would take an idiot not to realise that that was something else.

But... I wasn’t interested in that right now. I wasn’t interested in the facts. My mind felt so clear, so serene when I was gazing into John’s eyes.

“Sherlock...” John muttered, his eyes quickly dropping to the floor – or more rather where our pelvises where pressed against one another’s. “Sherlock, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you...”

His eyes slowly drifted up to meet my gaze again. I lifted my eyebrows slightly in question.

“Why... why did you kiss me down the alleyway?”

“I figured that it was one of the 3 most plausible reasons for two breathless men to be down a darkened alleyway together. Now whilst the first was an assault and the other was completely unthinkable, I decided that the one I opted for would be the simplest.” I replied, not needing any thought to it. “Though you seemed... keener... than I expected.”

A flush of red burst into John’s cheeks. His eyes darted everywhere to avoid mine. I watched him inquisitively as he seemed to freeze underneath me. After great difficulty, his eyes soon met mine and locked there. The next words came to me, frighteningly, naturally.

“I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it though.”

His eyes widened and a slight smile played across his lips, I returned the gesture. Gradually, I watched as the spark in John’s eyes started to fade and his smile slipped away. His head stooped down into his chest and he sighs heavily. I quirked my head to the side in confusion. John lifted his head up and looked into my eyes again, his gaze full of sorrow. He shook his head lightly a couple of times, closing his eyes, before staring at me once more. By this time, I’m completely lost as to what he’s thinking.

“What are we, Sherlock?” he asks with trouble heavy in his tone.

My brow furrows in response.

“What is... this?”

I watch as his hand gestures between his body and my own. He looks up at me.

“I... I don’t know.” I mutter, understanding now what he meant. John’s shoulders deflate. “But, but something’s changed, John.”

There’s a discomforting pause.

“What I feel for you, it’s changed John.”

I feel almost alien muttering such obscenities – but it’s the truth. John tilts his head slightly.

“How?”

I stare at him, giving him a look of uncertainty. He understands. I can’t say what I feel because I don’t know how I feel. This is all so foreign to me. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. I’ve managed to steer clear of any sort of emotional attachment to anyone, anything, until now.

And he understands.

I feel his hand gently caress my cheek. A gentle, caring smile appears on his face. It’s as if the unspoken truth has been aired. I can’t say it. Neither can he.

“Show me.”

He places his other palm on my cheek and holds my head in his hands as he brings his body close into mine. I feel myself bringing my loose hands up and to place them on his waist. I lean in slowly, watching as his eyes close dreamily, smelling his cologne, feeling his hot breath ghost onto my lips just as I....

**BZZZZ BZZZZZZ**

I stop dead. My eyes flash open wide as does John’s.

Doorbell.

I withdraw my face from John’s as he looks just as surprised as I do.

“Urgent.” I whisper. “Two rings. Maximum pressure withheld for 1 and a half seconds.”

“I’ll get it...” John manages to say disappointedly, just about as he slides out between the counter and I. I follow him as he walks out of the kitchen, into the living room and down the stairs. I walk towards the window and stare out to see our guest.

John answers the door just as I peep through the curtain.

“Molly? Oh my god, Molly what’s wrong?” I hear John say.

“John... John...” she wails, crying heavily. “John you need, you need to get down to Barts now – it’s Mike! John, John... Mike’s been shot!”

“What?!”

“Mike’s been shot, John! Oh God I think he’s dead! We need to go, like now, come on!”

The door slams and I watch as Molly and John run down Baker Street road. My gaze soon drifts to the view directly in front of our house. And there, between the crowds, I see a familiar figure.

He’s staring up at me, chillingly. Completely still. Watching.

Then he moves his thumb up to his neck and mimics slitting his throat.

Sebastian.


	10. Chapter 10

_John_

“Mike... Mike Stamford...” I begin, choking back tears and struggling to keep my voice under control.

I’m standing inside a small, prettily decorated church just on the outskirts of London. The place is nice, surrounded by trees and quite close to his old family home where he grew up. This must have been where he went when he was a lad, Mike himself wasn’t overly religious but his mum was. He’s told me some times of when she dragged him to church on a Sunday, only for him to sit there counting the bricks in the wall and fall asleep by the dismal drone of the priest. I stand at the front with my hands behind my back, tightly squeezing them together. In front of me stand several rows of pews, all of them full of sad, woeful faces. There’s not a single seat that hasn’t been taken, besides one or two where a friend or family member of Mike’s couldn’t stand it any longer. I barely take into account who’s there - besides the minister who stands to my right - I just draw my shoulders back, focus my gaze ahead, stare out of the stain glass window above the large mahogany door and concentrate on what I want to say next.

I’ve given a eulogy for several of my friends who died in Afghanistan but this was Mike. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult it was.

 “Mike Stamford was one of the kindest, funniest and best men I have ever known. He was a great guy... a loyal and trustworthy friend... always making a joke out of everything.” I paused, looking down at the floor then back up again, a sad smile playing around my lips. “Especially when he asked what happened to me after I returned from ‘being shot at’ out in Afghanistan...”

That roused a few weary sniffs of laughter. I was left in silence for a little while longer whilst I dropped my gaze down to the burnt orange carpet.

“Our nights out were a great laugh to say the least... and I’ll bloody miss those. A lot. It was my only form of escape from Sherlock.”

As a few more people sniffed a light laugh, I looked up at Sherlock and tried a smile. His expression was a blank and unimpressionable as always, though I could just make out a tiny sign of grief – though it was almost unnoticeable – in his sharp eyes. I returned to stare at the stain glass window, watching how the rays of sunlight poured through, casting colours of light blues and pinks as it tried to penetrate the dark despair and gloom that filled the room. Dust particles caught the light of the rays and glittered and danced about like tiny stars. Despite the sun outside and the glittering dust, nothing about today was at all warm or happy or cheerful.

Eventually, in the longer period of silence I found myself in once more, I tackled the courage to turn, just a little, so that I stared sorrowfully at the coffin. Large, dark and solid mahogany with golden coloured handles with flowers in front leaning up against it forming the word...

_MIKE_

 “It all happened so quickly...” I muttered.

And it had. One minute I was up with Sherlock in the flat then suddenly I’m running down Baker Street, jumping into a taxi with Molly and then weaving through London to Bart’s hospital. Just as I jump out of the cab as it swerves round the corner, I see where it’s happened - just outside the entrance to hospital. He must have just finished his shift. Crowds of medical personnel and some members of the public stood in a cluster. I run over and shove a few of them out of the way and I see him. Mike. Slumped on the cold, hard pavement, leaning against the wall, head tilted to one side with a bullet between his still open eyes, carefully just above his glasses. Red oozed out of the hole and spilled down his face before the blood had enough time to coagulate. The blood dried in the shape of a thin trickle from in between his eyebrows, past his eye and down his nose, almost like he’s crying tears of blood.

My medical instinct is to check his pulse so I reach for the neck, accidentally pushing his neck harder than I intended in shock. The body falls limp to the side and exposes the back of his head; his hair stained a wet red. I saw how the bullet had made a clear exit straight through Mike’s skull, in one side and out the other. Thick, sticky clots had begun to form around the wound, causing his thin hair to tangle in wet, red knots. Glancing up to the wall, I then noticed the bullet lodged firmly into the brickwork. Whatever he was killed with, it sure was bloody powerful. All this happened within about 10 seconds; it can’t have been any longer before I was finally dragged away by these two big blokes who had been trying to wrestle me back from Mike the whole time.

I then heard the wheels of a stretcher being hurried down the pavement. The stretcher was folded down to have Mike placed onto it and it was wheeled away within a matter of seconds. And that’s all the time I had with him. Minutes. Not even that.

“It all happened so quickly...” I repeated. I smiled nostalgically at the casket as I remembered his engagement party although, just like Mike, that moment of happiness soon slipped away.

“You were going to get married.” I said, shaking my head slightly. “You had finally found that one person in your life that made you happy, made you truly happy and you couldn’t even have that, could you?”

I turned to face my audience again, looking at Sue sympathetically. She was still silently crying but all the time her eyes fixated upon me. The tears were just streaming from her mousey-brown eyes without a sound.

“Mike deserved someone like you. He had been waiting for... God, ever since I can remember, for someone who he wanted to make happy and for someone who made him happy and Sue, you did it. By God, you made him happy. The last couple years have been the happiest I’ve ever seen Mike.”

I nodded and swallowed hard.

“He loved you. He truly loved you.”

Sue brought her hand up to her mouth as the tears kept coming.

 I sighed heavily and clenched my fists, feeling my grief turn to anger.

“It’s not fair.”

My jaw tightened.

“It’s not fair how... how Mike was such a brilliant guy and he was a good friend and he wouldn’t hurt anyone and yet something like _this_ happens to him.” By this time my voice had risen slightly and I was almost shouting. “The one time, the _one time_ in his life where he felt he amounted to something and it’s snatched away from him. Everything. It’s just...”

I squeezed my lips together, dropping my gaze to the floor. The sun hid behind the clouds.

“It’s just not fair how I never got to tell him how important he was.”

I looked up to the stain glass window again. The sun wasn’t shining. The stars weren’t glistening. Everything was still.

“Because he... he practically brought me back to life. When I came back from Afghanistan and... it was like, like fate when we met at the park, God if he didn’t stop me for a coffee I wouldn’t know where I’d be now...”

I looked at Sherlock. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“It was as if Mike knew that I needed someone... and I did. I didn’t know it, but he did. Mike... saved me. He introduced me to the most... fantastic person I’ve ever met and I never got to say thanks.”

Sherlock’s mask cracked. His forehead creased as his eyebrows crinkled with unhappiness. I nodded slightly. He knew I meant him. I think everyone knew I meant him.

I swallowed again and my chin fell into my chest. I clenched my fists tighter but I just couldn’t hold it in. I took one final look at the coffin and whispered, with a braking voice, _“Thank you, Mike.”_

My head hung again and I let the tears fall. If there was just one time where it was okay to cry, it was at a funeral. I like to stay strong, not let things get to me, but sometimes I can’t. I just break. I raised a hand up to my face as I squeezed my eyes together with my fingers. My breath came out raspy and quick as I wept. I couldn’t physically do anything else.

I heard footsteps towards me and then felt a hand on my back.

“John, mate... it’s all right, come on, come and sit down.” I heard a voice mumble comfortingly in my ear. Lestrade. I tried to quickly compose myself when I realised I was still standing in front of everyone. I looked up at the ceiling, blinking wildly before looking round at everyone. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after my speech.

Then I looked at Sherlock, who had – surprisingly - now risen out of his seat and looked as though he had taken a couple of steps forward. He was in no way covering his emotions now. His bottom lip had dropped to leave his mouth slightly open, his eyes were wide with distress and his eyebrows were slanted upwards and rose even higher in the middle, crinkling his forehead into waves of anguish. Whatever I had said, whatever he was thinking had affected him more than I have ever seen anything or anyone affect Sherlock before.

Pure, raw emotion. Innocent and vulnerable. He looked _human._

Feeling completely empty, I sat back down next to Sherlock on the wooden pew and placed my face in my hands. I didn’t want to look at or even speak with anyone; I just wanted to be with Sherlock and Sherlock alone. I wanted him to hold me and tell me everything was going to be all right. But then my little fantasies are something entirely different from what Sherlock actually is. And plus, he doesn’t feel the same way. He never will. He can’t.

I didn’t feel Sherlock move once the whole time the last few people went up to say their words but I could sense that all the while we sat there, Sherlock was watching me. I lifted my head to watch the last person settle down into his seat, tears in his eyes too just as the minister stepped up and announced for the coffin to be lifted out and into the churchyard. We were then instructed to exit the church, Sherlock was one of the first to get up and leave. I followed shortly but slowly after.

Mr Stamford, Mike’s dad, passed me on our way out. He was comforting his wife - Mike’s mum – whilst she loudly cried onto his arm. We watched one another on our way out, not saying a word but our expressions spoke volumes. I gave him a strong look of sympathy. He nodded respectfully. He was thanking me.

We gathered outside the church, huddled in different lost groups but the conversation was the same; sharing the grief, ‘sorry for your loss’, sympathetic glances at one another. Unbearable. At that point in time, I was probably more unresponsive than Sherlock is on a daily basis and that’s saying a lot. He hung over my shoulder like a dead animal, standing extremely close and _always_ watching me. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me. It was annoying yet weirdly comforting. I straightened myself up, gave a heavy sigh and reflected on my eulogy for Mike.

I felt stupid, like really, really stupid. That was totally out of my character; how I just stood there, broke down and just cried in front of everyone. I let down my guard, big time. The only plausible reason why I think I acted the way I did was probably because I remember Sherlock’s, small, funeral. I barely said anything for his eulogy because I couldn’t come to terms with the fact he was actually dead. Honestly, Mike’s funeral just reminded me how lucky I am to have him back. And it’s all thanks to Mike as well. If he didn’t introduce me to Sherlock in the first place, have us two loners familiarized, there would be no Sherlock and I.

I just didn’t, don’t, want to go back to being just me ever again.

The coffin was carried out on the shoulders of 6 men, 3 either side, all dressed in black like the rest of us and with dark top hats that shadowed their faces. They gently set the casket down on top of the open grave as it was smoothly lowered into the ground by the words of the minister:

_“We now commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life.”_

It was then that Mrs Stamford pulled out a small, old looking photograph out from her pocket. She brought it gently up to her lips and kissed the picture before extending her arm and setting the photograph free to slowly drift down into the grave. It rested peacefully upon the coffin with the image facing upwards. It was an old family photograph of the family, Mike looking about 10 years old. His sister was there too, looking around 6-7 years old, but she died young in a car crash when she was about 8. Mike never liked talking about it. I can’t imagine how Mrs Stamford’s feeling, losing both of her children.

The bag of soil and a small garden spade was then passed from the minister to his parents. Mrs Stamford took a sad scoop full of the dirt and chucked it into the grave. She passed it to Sue who, with much reluctance and many tears wiped away from her eyes, did as well. Mr Stamford was next who did it quickly but respectfully. I watched the dirt fall onto the coffin, covering the golden coloured plate on which read:

 _Michael Herbert Stamford_  
Died 15 th June  
Aged 41

Then there was a pause. I looked up to see Mr Stamford offering me the bag of dirt. He gently edged it closer towards me, gesturing me to take it.

“He’d have wanted you to. You were his good friend.” He said.

I slowly took a scoop of the brown soil in the spade and tossed it into the grave, watching it fall steadily and listening to the soft patter as the pieces of the soil rain hit the coffin. I handed it back to Mike’s dad without taking my eyes off the coffin. He then must’ve passed it back to the minister because I then heard something about the final stages of the ceremony or along those lines.

Unlike a usual burial, Mike’s mum wanted to be there when the coffin was actually buried. Which is fair enough. Two of the blokes who carried Mike out reappeared each with a shovel. Everyone stood round and watched as the grave slowly and steadily became full with the dirt that sat in a heap beside the hole. Once the soil was gone and the surface had been patted down into a smooth silky appearance, they rolled over some turf and the minister said a few words of respect. After that, everyone started disappearing.

Once Mike’s mum and dad said their goodbyes, thanks for coming etc. etc. Sherlock and I were the only ones left at the end. Sherlock had been standing with his hands held together at his front in respect and I had been standing with my hands shoved firmly in my pockets with my head bowed the whole time. We stayed like that for a while, just in complete and utter silence.

I had no words to say to be honest. I just felt numb and empty. Suddenly, I felt a nudge. I looked up at Sherlock. He was still staring at Mike’s grave but he threw me a quick glance and a half-smirk appeared on his lips. He now had his hands in his pockets. I looked back at the grave and smiled as I playfully nudged him back with my elbow.

“You all right?” he asked quietly, glancing at me again.

“Yeah I’m okay. Friend of mine’s just died but that’s happened before, right? I’ll be fine.” I said with a sigh. He didn’t seem to react as well as I had hoped.

“Right. Well.” He said before clearing his throat. “I’ll call a cab.”

He strode off, skirting around the grave and quickly out of the churchyard and onwards up towards the quiet road. I looked back at the grave and sighed again, holding back my shoulders.

“Bye Mike.” I whispered. I turned round and wandered towards the gate to the exit of the churchyard. A light breeze picked up and I felt it ghost past me. It was eerie, it was... gentle and almost not even there but it felt... strange. I can’t explain it. Instantly, I stopped. The breeze continued, rushing from behind me into the direction where I was walking. Suddenly, a small piece of folded paper flickered past on the ground, tumbling and twirling through the grass as it did so. Then, the breeze stopped. So did the paper; quite near to where I was standing.

 _JOHN_ it read.

Intrigued, I walked over and picked it up. I unfolded the paper. My eyes widened.

_He brought you together, now I’m going to rip you apart - S_

I looked up. Sherlock was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

_John_

“Sherlock?” I called, striding up the stairs of our flat with the dreaded panic snapping at my heels.

“Sherlock?”

I rushed into the living room to stop dead in my tracks. Sherlock was sat there in his armchair, thinking. I rolled my head back as I sighed heavily through gritted teeth. Jesus Christ, I wish he wouldn’t do that to me. As my jaw tightened in anger, I dropped my head to look at Sherlock, who wasn’t paying any attention to me at all of course; just staring into nothing. He was squatting on his chair; his knees up to his chest, back hunched over, elbows delicately resting on his knees, hands tightly clasped together with his chin rested on his tightly threaded fingers.

“Why did you just leave the churchyard like that?” I asked with a sigh, raising my eyebrows at him expectantly.

No response - there’s a surprise. I shuffled on my feet, glancing down at the floor. I guess now I should be used to Sherlock just gallivanting off and leaving me behind to twiddle my thumbs and chase after him, but that only regularly happens during cases and most of those times he shouts after me to join him. He never just leaves like that when we’re together unless it’s for a very good reason. I wasn’t one to freak out; having spent all that time in Afghanistan being trained for the worst, but he scared the absolute shit out of me. I panicked like an idiot at the cemetery when I saw he disappeared. I did my best to try and compose myself but before I knew it, I hurried straight into the church, frantically had a look around before remembering everyone had left and then headed straight for Baker Street. I tried his phone, must have been a good 6 or 7 times, but he didn’t answer once.

Then I spotted the side of his phone peeking out of his hands. Arse hole.

“Sherlock?”

Emotionless, unresponsive. Again. I was growing tired of this. I crumpled my hands up into fists and pursed my lips together in frustration.

“Sherlock.” I snapped. “Stop being an ignorant bastard and listen to me.”

He responded to that funnily enough; looking up at me with his eyebrows knitted together. I’ve seen that look before. It was the one he’d give me whenever I did something – and I quote – _‘particularly annoying’_ or if I had disturbed one of his ‘mind palace’ episodes.

“You just leave like that, ignore my calls and then expect me to come running after you?” I said, nodding my head around to add to the frustration of my words. “What happened?”

As if he knew exactly what I was going to say, he immediately waggled his mobile around in the air with one hand. A sarcastic look of annoyance temporarily flashed across his face (which mostly means screwing up his nose with a big frown) before he returned to clasp his mobile in his hands.

“Battery died.”

I looked at the side of his face in disbelief – he had made no effort at all to look at me once when I walked into the flat, he just sat there lost in thought. Shaking my head slightly, I pulled out my phone from my pocket and punched in his number. I held the mobile to my ear as I watched Sherlock. His phone flashed a couple of times and vibrated loudly in his hands. He looked at the screen and rejected the call.

“So your battery’s died, has it?” I asked sarcastically, slipping my phone into my trouser pocket before taking off my jacket as I walked over to my armchair. I threw my coat over the back of the chair. I looked over at Sherlock again; he was looking at me now. I’ve got to say, outsmarting Sherlock has to be one of the most brilliant things – of course it doesn’t happen too often but I have my moments – because it immediately gets his attention. I took a seat in my armchair and crossed a leg over the other, placing my arms on either of the arms of the chair. I raised my eyebrows suggestively, Sherlock replied with the same sarcastic look.

“So?” I asked.

“So, what?”

“Why’d you do it? Why’d you just set off and leave? That case in the paper has been completely taken over by Lestrade so he doesn’t need your help on _that_ anymore... your phone battery clearly hasn’t died...” Moment of silence. “So...”

Nope, nothing again. As soon as I started talking he returned back to his former blank gaze. God, he can be reallybloodyannoying when he wants to be. I don’t know – hell, I don’t even want to know - what goes on inside his head but his communication skills can be seriously appalling. It’s as if he just wants me to read his mind. Yeah, I wasn’t getting anywhere with him now. I just shook my head slightly, jumped out of my chair and headed for the kettle; a nice cuppa sounded really appealing right now. I turned around to face him as I walked under the kitchen arc.

“Fancy one?”

He gently shook his head without looking at me. “Like something a bit stronger though.” His deep voice mumbled, sounding a little bit croakier than normal. He cleared his throat instantly. 

My eyebrows dropped in confusion. _He_ needed a drink? Of all people? In this situation I would have thought I would’ve been the one hitting the booze, after all Mike’s just... and his funeral was pretty intense. Thinking about it made my chest heavy and my stomach turn into knots, so I walked straight over to the cupboard and grabbed two whiskey glasses, placing them on the very edge of the kitchen table whilst trying to mind most of Sherlock’s clutter. Walking out of the kitchen, I pushed aside some of Sherlock’s books from behind my armchair and lifted the bottle of whiskey I kept well hidden beside the bookcase. Sherlock knew it was there of course but even he had to respect a few little things, small rules, of mine, like how this whiskey was for special occasions or emergencies _only_. I stopped with the bottle in my hands and watched him. I could tell something was clearly troubling him, but I didn’t want to pry. I placed the bottle down on the table next to my armchair after clearing it of yet more books and then went to fetch the glasses.

I placed them down on the table and poured us half a glass each but then deciding to add a little bit more to Sherlock’s; he looked as if he needed it. I handed him the glass and he took it instantly after he slowly lowered his legs down and sat in normal sitting position. He took a small sip and held the glass in the hand of his left arm that he laid down the arm of the chair. His other elbow perched on the opposite arm as he rested his temple on his middle and forefinger and his cheek on his thumb. He took another sip. I barely touched my drink; I just sat there watching him.

We sat in silence for a good 5-10 minutes until Sherlock had finished his drink, mine only half done (I’ve never really had a knack for whiskey). He then extended his arm towards me, offering the empty glass. I raised my eyebrows. He didn’t even move, didn’t even look at me and yet he wanted me to get up and refill his drink for him. _Whatever,_ I thought as I got up, unscrewed the whiskey bottle and poured him another measure. I stood there and screwed the cap back on before turning around to go and sit back in my chair.

“I hated seeing you like that at Mike’s funeral.”

Placing the bottle down on the table, I turned around to face him.

“What?”

He frowned temporarily. “I couldn’t stand it.”

That, honestly, made my heart ache. I know I shouldn’t say that but it did. It really hurt.

He looked up at me with sorrowful eyes. Oh, God.

“It just made me think of how you would’ve been at my funeral.”

“Sherlock...” I said, shaking my head. I didn’t need to hear this right now.

“No, John.” He interrupted, balancing his drink precariously on the arm of his chair and getting up to stand in front of me. Our gaze locked. “When you were up in the church giving your eulogy...” He was shaking his head slightly now, his eyes glistening with distress. “It was unbearable and then when we came out onto the church grounds and you joked about how...” He sighed. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, I had to leave.”

I just fell silent for a moment. I didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t like Sherlock at all to be opening up to me like this. Though, over recent weeks, I’ve been seeing more and more of who Sherlock really is, of course I know him – better than anyone else – but how well can anyone know Sherlock? He puts on this big facade that he has a rock-solid heart, locks away his emotions, throws away the key and never really talks about his past or his future; he just lives in the moment. But lately, there’ve been quite a few glimpses of Sherlock’s sentiment. Could that mean something?

“Well that’s not like you to let your emotions get the upper hand?” I responded, first thing that finally came to mind really.

No... There was something else. I looked him up and down. Definitely.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“No, it’s nothing.” He said, walking away to his whiskey. I grabbed his arm to stop him. I swung him back round to face me before he managed to take a step forward. His head flicked back to observe me. I looked up at him under my raised eyebrows.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I released my grasp and taking in a deep breath through my nose. Sherlock took his glass of whiskey, drunk the contents of the drink and placed the empty glass on the corner of his desk. He walked over to the desk chair, sat down and opened his laptop. Well, I guess that would be as far as we would be going with that conversation that afternoon. I gave it a couple of minutes, mulling over what he had said and sipping gingerly at my drink before suddenly, I remembered something.

I placed my glass on the table and picked up my coat from off the back of the chair.

“Oh, I uh, forgot to say...” I mumbled as I searched the pockets of the coat. “I found this rolling along in the grass just as you left. Might cheer you up to... you know, set your mind to something and do something productive.” I walked over to Sherlock, who was giving me the desperately-trying-not-to-look-interested expression as I pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper. He took it without hesitation though, analysing it underneath the lamp in an instant. He unfolded it once, read my name and unfolded it once more until it was the full A4 size.

As he read the note, his chin rose and the curiosity grew in his eyes.

“So?”

“It’s nothing.” He said, screwing up the piece of paper and chucking it skilfully into the waste-paper basket. I jerked my head back into my neck.

“No... No Sherlock, for once I’m pretty certain that this...” I began as I removed the note from out of the bin and unfolded it, waving it around slightly. “Means something. It has my name on it for a start...”

“Could’ve been any John.” He interrupted dismissively, swatting his hand in my direction. I ignored him.

“And then it’s clearly suggesting something about ripping ‘us’ apart... which sort of insinuates that whoever they are knows we’re together.”

My eyes widened at the realisation of what I just said. I quickly looked up at Sherlock, who snapped his head round to look at me in confusion, as my mouth dropped slightly. Shit.

“I mean thinks - he _thinks_ we’re together! But we’re not. We’re not together in any sort of way or anything and... uhh... I don’t, I don’t possibly know what the thing could mean and that’s what I’m trying to say really, yeah.”

Oh well done, John - pulled that one off fantastically; round of applause for you.

“Who could it be from anyway?” I blurted out, trying to regain my little credibility. “That ‘S’ must mean something right?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders with a frown, jumps up from his chair to snatches the note from me and chucks it into the bin again as a tightly scrunched ball of paper.

“It’s nothing. Probably just some joker... joking around.” He said, waving his hands around sarcastically. “Nothing to worry about.” I watched him as he walked back over to his desk and sat at his laptop, barely even looking at me. My eyebrows drooped once more in total confusion. I could only sense that he was keeping something from me, again, and I didn’t like it. But there was no way in forcing Sherlock to tell me anything right now, plus I didn’t feel up to the hassle of pestering an answer out of him anyway. I didn’t really feel up for anything apart from a cup of tea and a sit down.

I walked over to the kettle and switched it on. I popped my head round the arch to catch a look at Sherlock; typing away enthusiastically on the keyboard of his laptop and occasionally stopping to browse through several different website pages.

Well, guess we go on as normal I suppose.


	12. Chapter 12

 

_Sherlock_

With regards to Mike’s funeral, I didn’t think very much of it (nor did I think very much of him or anyone else there for that matter) until I saw John stand up and give his eulogy. It pained me to see him that way. It was totally unlike John to stand there and break down in front of everyone - he’s such a strong character - and I’ve never seen him in this state before. But then, I suppose, even the sturdiest of walls have their cracks. It made me think that if this was what he was like at Mike’s funeral, I could only imagine how he must have been at my own and it’s that realisation of the pain I must have inflicted upon John that aggrieved me. When I planned the fall I knew my death would affect John, just I never considered the degree of which it would actually affect him. John must have given a eulogy at my own funeral. In that one moment, I was overcome with an uncommon feeling of guilt and, quite frankly, I felt sick in my stomach.

Reflecting on when I jumped from my seat, which was both unintentional and too much of a pathetically sentimental act, I find it to be rather embarrassing. I can only put my actions down to the powerful and overwhelming urge which was unfamiliar to me to cause me to do such a thing. When I stood up to reach for John, unbeknownst to me as to why I would do so, I clearly let my heart rule my head and this is something I tell myself time and time again not to do. But after that, I could tolerate it.

What I said was a slight exaggeration, a half-truth. I left John at the cemetery to see how he would react, for my spreadsheet analysis. After John’s clearly demonstrated passion he showed in kissing me in the alley-way, I decided to not only figure out why he acted in that such way but to also scrutinize his behaviour when he is around me. Adrenaline could have been the sole reason why John acted as credibly as he did, but I wasn’t and still am not convinced that it was just solely out of impulse. Typically when I’m not certain that means that the conclusion I have come to is wrong and I’m always right. Therefore, the main question remains to be, why?

I then decided into further analysis into my investigation, not just inspecting John but also myself. I was confused as to what I was feeling, that sudden surge of not just guilt, there was... there was something else, another sort of emotion which I couldn’t identify. I had confessed to John, with great difficulty, that my feelings have changed and he seemed to understand, but how could he when I can’t understand them myself?

It infuriated me to have this lack of awareness and knowledge about what caused this putrid, unidentified feeling to penetrate my mind and wash through my body. I have always been able to keep myself so distant from emotions and separate myself from pathetic sentimental behaviour ‘normal’ people express. It confused me as to why suddenly, everything I’ve been was changing and so this confusion made me extremely angry. I decided that I needed not only to explore what was happening in John’s perspective but also my own. As I wanted to make the study as impartial as possible, I took the option not to tell John about it or to ask him any obvious questions as in telling him may affect the end results.

I spent days coding my spreadsheet into computer programming text just for precautionary measures if prying eyes – John’s – looked at my document, which would’ve been highly improbable anyway as I keep a password (consisting of 28 letters 17 pieces of punctuation and 4 numbers) guarding my laptop.

The first experiment came partially as a mistake. It had been 9 days since Mike’s funeral and John had (apparently, I never noticed) been out during most of the days, I believe he said something about his job which I didn’t even realise he still had, then he went on a ‘lad’s night out’ I recall him saying, on the Saturday night. I remember him coming home early, disappointed and going straight up to his room. I could only assume it was a failed attempt at pursuing the opposite sex, _again_.

Lestrade had called me twice during those 9 days with pathetic mediocre cases, not worth my time, but I solved them anyway. The first was the usual case, suicide turning out to be murder, rather boring and straight forward really. You only had to look at the deepness of the cut in his throat to know that it wasn’t suicide. I refused to go down to the crime scene, judging the case to be only a 5, so I had Lestrade put me on Skype. I knew it wasn’t suicide from the start but the facts were that there were small bruises on each side of his throat, from where the victim was strangled _after_ the slit in his throat was caused. There was an awful lot of blood for such a thin slit so I judged that the murderer had tried to slit his throat, ended up cutting too thinly and not deep enough so squeezed the blood from his victim with his bare hands and bled him dry. Analysing more closely, I concluded that my predictions were correct. Further traces of blood were found on the windowsill, also combined with quite a bit of dirt which was a strange sight. I then saw one of the flowers in a garden basket hanging on the balcony looked askew, which was a odd for a clearly passionate gardener, judging by the number of neatly trimmed and beautifully arranged plants he had in his baskets and the excessive number of gardening books he kept, not to mention the gardening gloves which gave the whole game away – he never gardened without wearing his gloves, so why would he plant a flower a) in such a random way and b) without wearing gloves? A razor blade was then found buried in his plant pot underneath the flower – proving that this couldn’t possibly have been suicide. Murder. Easy.

The second case was tedious and I judged it to be a 3 so I’ll spare the details. Open and shut attempted robbery which turned deadly when the homeowner (male, 39, butcher, got hold of his carving knife. Nasty sight.

It was the day after I had finished the second case and John had the day off work so was sitting in his armchair catching up on the daily newspaper. I was sat on the sofa, back against the arm of the couch with my legs stretched out and busying myself on my laptop, coming up with plausible ideas as to how I could start my investigation. None really took to any light for me.

I heard the rustle of the newspaper and out of my peripheral vision I could see John folding up the paper, placing it on the table and then a pen on top of it. I pretended to be engrossed in my business, placing my hands together and raising my fingertips to my lips. I watched as John sat and stared at me. He sighed loudly.

He pouted his lips, obviously in boredom, as his head lifted slightly to look up at the ceiling. I watched as he gazed out from the window, into the kitchen, down at the floor then back at me – being extremely irritating.

“Sooo...” he said, almost whispering. I looked at him. I hate it when he does this.

“Got any... new cases?”

“No.” I reply simply, getting back to my study. I was already aggravated that I couldn’t come up with any ideas; I didn’t need John trying to make conversation.

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and patting his fingertips together repeatedly as he raised his eyebrows.

“Planning on doing anything else besides... whatever you’re doing over the next few days?”

“No.”

I stopped typing. Wow. He was persistent today. He usually gives up on the first attempt.

“Anything... tomorrow night?”

“For God’s sake John,” I hissed, slamming my hands down on the keyboard. “I’ve just told you that I don’t have any plans over the next few days and so _that would mean..._ oh, look at that, I don’t have any plans tomorrow night either.” I replied with heavy sarcasm. “Why would _I_ have plans? I come and go as I please.”

He looks surprised.

“Sorry, I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?” I snap.

I flick my head round to look at him as his expression turns from surprised to disappointed, as if I’ve completely missed something. He leans back in his chair and places his arms down hard on each of the arms of the chair and he just looks at me. My brow furrows.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head lightly.

“Nothing,” he replies, rising from his chair with a sigh and walking up to his room. “It’s not important.” I follow his movement with my head and raise my eyebrows, feeling instantly apologetic. I stayed in my chair looking quite shocked until I heard his bedroom door close.

I looked over to John’s armchair to see he didn’t actually fold the paper neatly like he normally does, indicating there was something of importance on the page under the fold that he wanted to get back to later. I rose quickly from my chair, gently but swiftly placing my laptop on the sofa and paced towards the chair. Picking up the newspaper and allowing the red marker pen to roll to the floor, I unfolded the paper saw what John had been looking at.

A large red ring circled an advert for a theatre production of War Horse which I believed to have finished a couple of months back but was now doing several performances for only 2 days. John had always taken a shine to theatre and of course anything military based, he had always been particularly interested by the World Wars – as can be proven by the numerous different books he owns about the historical event. I smiled. There was my idea. If it was to be anything, it would be something John loved.

Experiment 1: Scenario – ‘Date’  
 _< p>domain01_[ctrl]conditions <subjectA>*X > 5 days* //_  
<p>#endif if //  
          #if intStep = <subjecta> //  
[exprmnt=1]{20062014}<subjecta>__#if successful=proceed #run [exprmnt=2] //  
<p> #run [exprmnt=1]{{intdate}}

The next day, whilst John was at work, I jumped on a cab and visited Shaftsbury Theatre’s box office to buy the tickets, with Mycroft’s influence of course since most of the theatre was fully booked – I still was only able to get stool seats a couple of rows from the front. I wasn’t happy with the fact that I was even going – I appreciate theatre but it’s just... useless - let alone the fact that I was being wedged into a tiny seat between John and a complete stranger. I ideally wanted a box but since Mycroft’s name only stretches so far, the stalls would have to do.

I just hoped John would be grateful for this. I could be doing so many other things with my time. It was late afternoon when I arrived home and to my disappointment John hadn’t returned home from work. I whipped out my phone from my pocket and sent him a message.

 _15:12pm_  
What time do you finish work?  
\- SH

His speed at replying to texts is astonishing.

_15:26pm  
7 WHY?_

_15:27pm_  
Claim you’re sick; come down with some sort of cold and that you have to return home. Immediately.  
\- SH

_15:30pm  
SHERLOCK IM AT WORK I CANT JUST LEAVE_

_15:30pm_  
Yes you can, state there’s an urgent matter to attend to. You have half an hour.  
\- SH

I thought half an hour would be a more than sufficient time to come home from work, and it was. John arrived 15 minutes after the last text.

I was sat in my armchair with my best attire on accompanied with my leather gloves, coat and scarf done up tightly along with my collar flicked up. He walked through the door and looked at me, stopping momentarily before putting his hands out at his sides. I gave him my best smug smile.

“Well?” he asked. I ticked my head to the side as to imply I didn’t understand what he was asking. His lips pouted in irritation. Infuriating John does have its benefits of being an entertaining past time.

“Don’t give me that. Why did you call me back here? I was working.”

“Ah!” I gasped, jumping from my chair and revealing the tickets from my pockets, slapping them down onto the desk. I rolled back my shoulders and raised my chin slightly in pride as I watched his reaction.

“... What are they?” he questioned.

“Tickets.” I clicked.

His head drew back into his neck as his brow dropped.

“To what?”

“Take a look for yourself.” I said as he wandered over cautiously. His eyes lit up. Just the reaction I wanted. He looked at me in astonishment.

“B, but how? The place was fully-” he began.

“You have half an hour to get ready and I expect you to wear your best formal clothes. We need to be there half an hour before the show begins just so that you enjoy the full experience. I’ll expect you down here at quarter past four.” I stated with a light chuckle.

I walked away into the kitchen, swishing my coat behind me deliberately, as I decided to entertain myself with my chemistry set for the while that John was getting changed. He would most likely take less than half an hour but I couldn’t spend that time just sitting around and waiting. I hardly have the patience to wait for the kettle to boil.

Just as I predicted, John was ready in 20 minutes dressed in a new shirt that I hadn’t seen before – dark navy blue, black buttons and nicely fitted – with a black tie, black trousers and embarrassingly shiny black shoes.

“Right,” he declared, slipping on his black blazer over his shirt and doing up the one button hastily. “Ready.”

I lifted my head from my microscope and inspected him; showered, fresh shave, new cologne and pretty much a new outfit besides the tie.

“New shirt.” I muttered, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I uh, picked it up the other day when I was walking down the high street.” He swung his fisted arms back and forth slightly, looking round the room uncomfortably. “Only 20 quid...”

I nodded slightly, still staring at him.

“It’s nice.” I said, clearing my throat.

He raised his eyebrows bowed his head momentarily before throwing his chin up into the air and clearing his throat too. He looked around the room again and blinked heavily.

“Thanks...”

I jumped up from my seat and brushed past him as I reached for the tickets on the desk. Definitely new cologne... and new shower gel. I stopped in front of him and stared down at him.

“Right, well. We best be off.”

“Ah, yes.” John replied with a nod.

“After you.”

John gave me a funny look and scoffed. Nevertheless, he led the way. I smirked slightly. Surprisingly, I was beginning to enjoy this. 


	13. Chapter 13

_John_

That was bloody fantastic! One of the best productions I've ever seen, it has to be! And I was completely stunned that Sherlock actually booked us tickets purely because a) I swear there were no seats left anyway, but then I can imagine Sherlock used Mycroft's name as an influence and b) Sherlock? Doing something  _nice?_ Honestly, I was pretty sceptical as to what it was all about when he whacked out the tickets on the table. I was going to ask him what he's done this time, but then I thought maybe he actually picked up on what I was trying to ask him the night before and he then went out to buy tickets to apologise. Or maybe there's something behind this all, an experiment of some sort, but why would he experiment with me? Oh I don't know, either way, I don't really care. I was willing to go along with it, much like everything else he ushers me into – I need to stop doing that really.

When we arrived, we gave in our tickets and Sherlock was gone in a matter of seconds, I swear I was jogging at some points to keep up with him. Sherlock guided me round the impressive lobby and through the long corridors, no exaggeration in the word long, to get to the stalls; of course Sherlock knew where  _he_ was going. Then we entered the theatre and I gradually slowed down to a halt to take in my surroundings, just gazing at the whole scale of the place. It was flipping huge and absolutely beautiful. Endless rows of skilfully crafted chairs, made from a dark wood – mahogany? – each with a plush, red cushion covering the seat, the back and the arms of the chair. The stage was massive, stretching the whole breadth of the theatre and painted a dark black. There were people pouring in from the 4 different entrances (two at the back and two either side of the theatre) gradually making their way to their seats in orderly lines. Sherlock stopped and surveyed his surroundings, glancing at me briefly. I must have been gawping like a child at the place for ages.

"Beautiful isn't it?" Sherlock said, putting his hands into his pockets. I nodded; my eyebrows arched high and mouth slightly open in complete amazement. He walked on down the middle aisle, momentarily revealing the tickets from his pocket to take a quick glance at them, and I followed slowly. I walked out from underneath the balcony of seats above the several rows of stalls to the back of the theatre and looked up at the ceiling. Shit, this place was genuinely massive. I tried my best to not look as completely taken aback as I was, but a whispered  _'wow'_ did slip past my lips when I saw the arch above the stage and the boxes that jutted out from the walls. They were all crafted with such astonishing detail. The arch was made from a white marble and was breathtakingly beautiful, with carved patterns swirling on the surface of it which mainly consisted of cherubs, angels and people wearing robes, swanning about the place. It was gorgeous, really, but it was the sort of thing you'd see in a church, or a cathedral, you know with all those God-like figures drinking from chalices and eating grapes from a golden bowl and doing rich bastard stuff.

Sherlock found our seats and waved me over impatiently. We were in between a couple (who must've been in their 80s) on the one side and a younger bloke with floppy blonde hair on the other, with a seat between us and the bloke. I sat next to the old woman who was there with her husband and she greeted me with a smile and whispered to me "Ooh, this is bound to be good won't it, love?" (Her husband seemed pretty distant, I think he thought she was talking to him because he nodded and grunted). Sherlock sat down in between me and the empty seat, scanning his eyes over the blonde haired guy quickly. Blondey saw this and looked up at Sherlock; giving him a nod. Sherlock returned this gesture with the closest thing he can manage to a smile. My brow instantly crumpled and mouth fell slightly open as I felt a stab of jealousy. What was  _that_  all about?

It has to be said, the place was pretty crowded and I don't think there was an empty seat in the theatre besides the one next to Sherlock, but even then I assumed someone would fill it. I could just about move my legs to get comfortable, although annoyingly my knees repeatedly kept touching the back of the chair in front of me. I just felt sorry for Sherlock; his legs were practically pushing up against the chair in front of him. The woman in that chair must have turned round at least 6 times during the performance as he kept adjusting his legs to get comfortable. To say the least, he didn't look very happy at all when we were waiting for the show to start; he kept sighing through his nose really loudly, clenching his jaw, checking his watch and drumming his fingers impatiently on the wooden arm of the chair. I should have been irritated, but I couldn't help but laugh at him. After all, he was doing this all for me; I couldn't see Sherlock of all people having any interest in theatre.

It was bloody hot in there too. The day itself had been pretty sweltering and this combined with the number of sticky, sweaty people in the theatre was nasty. Sherlock had taken the clever decision to take off his coat and scarf as we sat down but, regrettably, I kept my jacket on. I must've been sweating like a pig in there.

After the countless time of Sherlock sighing and looking at his watch in impatience, the lights started to dim. Just as an announcement boomed around the theatre to say the production was about to start, a figure started lightly running down the right hand aisle of the theatre and squeezed down our row of seats, apologising multiple times to the people sat in their spaces.

"Hurry up!" The bloke next to us hissed. The figure, who turned out to be another bloke who had closely cut brown hair, soon reached the seat in between Sherlock and his friend and sat down, turning round to apologise to Sherlock, who gave him a surly nod without taking his eyes off the stage. I watched them for a minute as the two bickered quietly among themselves but then suddenly the man with floppy blonde hair looked over his friend's shoulder at me briefly and nudged his mate. They both turned to look at me. I looked away quickly and fixed my eyes on the empty stage as the production began, spotlights flashing. The last thing I wanted was any trouble, although they didn't look very threatening; they were both pretty lean and thin, nicely dressed with smartly styled hair.

The show was fantastic. We were so close to the front so we could see practically everything in brilliant detail. I'd hate to know the cost of these tickets...

"Oh and by the way," Sherlock whispered, leaning in close to my ear but keeping his face forwards. "I paid for the tickets on your card, I hope you don't mind."

I'm going to kill him.

Instantly, I looked directly at him with a face like thunder as he moved his smirking lips away from my ear and as I was about to open my mouth to call him a tosser, something caught my eye. The blokes next to us were...  _oh._

They were  _together._

I must've been staring at them for longer than I realised because Sherlock noticed my stare, looked at me momentarily and then glanced over at the blokes next to him, holding hands. He quickly looked back at me with sarcastically raised eyebrows.

"Oh come on, John. Don't tell me you didn't notice that they were gay." He whispered.

Thankfully, before Sherlock could go on to tell me how he noticed they were gay (probably something about hair products, underwear, aftershave or some bollocks), the actors appeared on the stage.

The whole play absolutely fantastic. When Joey, the leading horse, (which was actually a skeleton of the horse made from steel, leather and aircraft cables and was controlled by actors) came onto the stage, I was just in awe - the way the performers presented the horse was just amazing. But, of course, something had to ruin it and this was the fact that Sherlock couldn't quite get his head round it.

"John?"

"John."

"John?" He whispered over and over again.

"What?" I hissed, snapping my head round to look at him.

"Why is it like that?" he asked, continually staring at the stage with much confusion.

"Why's what's like what?"

"Why is the horse like  _that_?"

"Well they can't just get a real horse on stage Sherlock..."

"Why not?"

I just left it at that. There was no winning this argument with Sherlock, even if I  _was_ right. He was so bloody annoying. Every time the horse was onstage – which was quite bloody frequent as the  _whole play was about him_ – Sherlock waved his hands around his head in confusion as he does whilst he muttered to himself, "I don't understand... why couldn't it have just been a real horse? I don't like it, John. John, I don't understand. I don't understand the concept of having a pretend horse being manned by actors, John. John, why don't they just get a real horse? Get a horse. Train the horse. It's simple enough. I don't understand, John. John!" Throughout the whole. Damn. Production. I had to seriously restrain myself from punching him in the face.

For the entirety of the show, I tried to remain focused on the performance to ignore Sherlock but mainly to distract myself from glancing over at the couple to our right. However, when the play was nearing its end, I stole a look at them and I really wish I didn't. They were now kissing and they were proper going for it. It's not the fact that they were kissing which was the reason why I wish I never looked but I just found it incredibly uncomfortable – especially when Sherlock seemed to lean in closer to me as he rested his elbow on my side of the arm of his chair. All I could visualise was Sherlock and I, you know... I snapped my vision back to the stage as I tried to pay attention to the play and finding it very difficult.

A couple of minutes after that, Sherlock lowered his arm down and rested his left hand on the wooden ball that ended the arms of the chair, extremely close to my leg. I watched out the corner of my eyes as Sherlock leaned the other way now; right elbow settling on the arm rest with his chin on his thumb, his cheek resting on his elongated forefinger and his relaxed middle finger resting on his lips. My jaw clenched. _Jesus._

My focus was soon slipping away from the performance and I think it was pretty much shattered when I saw something moving out the corner of my eye. It was Sherlock's left hand slowly stroking the orb at the end of the chair, letting his fingers gently slide up the wood, going from a flat palm to closed fingertips. Palm to fingertips. Palm to fingertips. Over and over again but doing it slowly, sensually. I gritted my teeth firmly. I could feel that curl churning around in my lower stomach as my mind just lost control, fantasies just flooding my mind. Oh, God...

But thankfully, I was stopped as the show came to its end and there was a roaring applause from the crowd. I stood up along with multiple other members of the audience to clap; releasing a well needed sigh as I rose from my seat. The cast members disappeared and reappeared to collect their applause as the curtain dropped on their third bow. As the lighting returned to normal, everyone rose from their seats to gather their belongings and set to leave, as did Sherlock and I. He hastily put on his coat and scarf, despite the heat, without saying a word and I could see his eyes dart from person to person as they left the theatre, clearly analysing them.

I stretched my arms and cracked my back as I stole a glance at the gay couple next to us again, who were also standing. Eavesdropping on their conversation, I heard them discussing different foods and restaurants. Then, as the line of people started moving, the blonde haired man walked on, followed closely by his brown haired boyfriend who gave his partner a playful slap on the arse as they left. I can't even begin to describe what was going around in my head at that moment. Sherlock seemed to be watching too as his eyes glanced at me briefly before he followed the line out of the row of seats. As they reached the end of the aisle, the two scuffled for a while but finished with the two men's arms around one another as they walked out of the theatre.

We walked out of the theatre and stood out in the cold, crisp air. I sighed heavily but happily. Sherlock looked down at me with a questionable expression as I returned his gaze with a wide grin across my face.

"That was good wasn't it?" I asked him.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his coat pockets and walked on. I followed.

"I guess it was all right. Not... my type of thing... really, but you enjoyed it though?"

"Yeah, I thought it was brilliant."

We walked in silence as I followed Sherlock down Endell Street and through some winding smaller roads until we walked down an avenue which seemed like every single building was a restaurant from a different culture, from Chinese to Indian, Sri Lankan to Italian; I swear there was a restaurant from every part of the world, apart from a good old British chippy, which made me laugh. The street was long, dimly lit and packed with people coming and going from these different cafes. The smells were wonderful and extremely pungent and there was a different scent for every shop you passed. I had no idea where we were going but I didn't really mind. Although, I guessed from our whereabouts he was taking me out to dinner.

Suddenly, Sherlock came to a stop in front of one slightly less strong smelling restaurant. "Dinner?" he said, holding open the door and quirking his chin up in the air as he waited for my response. I looked up at the building; nice looking place, looked quite quiet too. The structure of the building was made from dark coloured bricks and a red wood lining the outsides. There was a sign labelling the restaurant in golden letters,

_Garrick's Bar and Grill Restaurant_

"Yeah go on then, I'm starving." I answered, walking into the restaurant with a shrug. It was a decent enough place, dark brown walls with cream ceilings and a deep red carpet with very dim lighting. We stood and waited behind a couple in front of us who were seated to a table pretty quickly.

"Treating me to theatre and now taking me out to dinner, what is this... a date?" I teased, keeping my gaze fixed ahead. I could see Sherlock glimpse at me quickly, a half smirk forming on his lips. He placed his hands behind his back as a waitress approached us.

"Table for two?" She spoke, flashing us each a smile. God, she wasn't too bad looking. She had long, curly brown hair with the enormous blue eyes. I smiled back, opening my mouth to speak.

"Yes please, a table for us preferably by the window out of everyone's way but near the salad bar if you don't mind." Sherlock interrupted. I rolled my eyes. The waitress then guided us over to our table and had us seated within minutes, bringing us over a menu each and a basket of fresh bread rolls. Sherlock handed me a menu and placed his own down on the table, flattening his arm over it as he leant on his elbow, turning himself to look out the window. I picked up a bread roll, still quite warm, and picked at it.

"You not eating tonight?" I asked, popping a bit of the bread into my mouth as I watched Sherlock.

"No I ate yesterday. I'm fine."

"Well since, I take it, I'm paying and this place looks pretty expensive, I guess that's for the best in terms of my balance really."

Sherlock smiled.

"I might have a steak."

"Ah, thought you'd change your mind." I chuckled, leaning back in my chair and still picking at the bread.

He frowned temporarily as he thought, still looking out the window.

"Haven't had steak in ages."

I picked up the menu and looked at it. Beef tenderloin steak, sirloin steak, rump steak, sausages, sausages wrapped in bacon, grilled chicken, beef burgers and all served with chips and salad. Like some sort of meat paradise.

"Sirloin?" I questioned, looking up at him from raised eyebrows as I gazed up from the menu. He nodded.

"I think I might join you there." I said as I closed the menu and settled it down. The waitress was over as soon as I settled down my menu. It was a shame the lighting was so dark, I could only just make out the brilliant blue of her eyes.

"You ready to order fellas?" she asked, pulling her small notepad and pen from her belt that was fastened tightly round her hips as she smiled at me. She had a cracking smile.

"Uh, yeah, thanks we'll have uh..." I started, shifting about in my seat as I opened the menu to point out the food.

"We'll have two sirloin steaks, one with chips and without the salad cooked medium-rare and one without both chips and salad and cooked well-done and we'll also have two pints of beer and that'll be all." Sherlock interrupted, turning his head to look at her, finishing with a sarcastic smug smirk.

The waitress stood stunned, mouth slightly ajar. I rolled my eyes again. Well there go my chances of chatting her up this evening.

"Oh and I do believe we'll need another batch of bread, bring butter next time."

Sherlock smirked once more and looked back out the window. I looked at the staggered waitress sympathetically, shaking my head slightly.

"We'll just have two sirloin steaks, one medium-rare and one well-done and two beers please." I said.

"Uh... Okay... umm, okay." She managed to say as she walked off. I don't think she actually wrote anything down.

I instantly looked back at Sherlock as she left.

"What was that for?" I heckled.

No response.

"Sherlock, don't ignore me."

He turned to face me.

"What?" he questioned.

"What was that all about?"

"I don't know what you mean..."

"No, you know exactly what I mean. You normally let me talk when we order, but that was just spiteful, the way you talked to her. It was almost like... It was almost like..."

"It was almost like what?" He was getting irritated now. Brilliant.

"It was almost like... you were jealous."

"Jealous? Why would I be jealous?" Sherlock scoffed, sneering at me. I sat back in my seat, grinning. He was! He was actually jealous!

"Stop looking at me like that." He spat.

I just kept grinning. This was hilarious.

"Stop it, John."

"Oh, what, you going to make me?"

"I could if I wanted to." He said pointing his nose up in the air as he looked out of the window again.

"And take on a soldier?" I said with strong gusto, folding my arms.

He snapped his head back round to look at me. "You were a doctor."

"Was still in the army. Still can fight. Still can handle a gun."

Silence. I relished in the victory.

"Yeah. That's what I thought." I added for one last extra dig.

"Shut up."

The steak arrived a couple of minutes later and it was delicious. Sherlock ate it with little persuasion; he was clearly hungry no matter what he was telling himself. We ate in complete silence, I was still chuffed about my triumph and Sherlock was still pretty miffed, until the waitress popped over again to check how our meals were going.

"Hi guys, just wondering how your meals are?"

I looked at Sherlock for some response who was tucking into his meal; he completely ignored her  _and_ me.

"Yeah, it's great thanks."

"Oh good, lovely, okay then I'll leave you to it." As she was about to walk away, she turned back around as if she realised something. There was me hoping that she wanted my number or at least my name, but no.

"Oh, I completely forgot I'm so sorry!" She announced. Sherlock raised his head in annoyance and looked at her. I cleaned my mouth briefly with the napkin and set my knife and fork down. "Our restaurant gives a complimentary bottle of wine and a candle on the table for every couple that comes in, would you like one?"

I spluttered the food in my mouth as I swallowed hard.

"Uh, umm, no it's uh, it's no, we're not..."

Then suddenly, I felt a hand slide on top of mine. My view flicked down to see Sherlock's hand lovingly clutching around my own, his face now a bittersweet smile at the waitress.

"That would great, thank you." He beamed. This was not Sherlock. Who the hell was this? The waitress grinned and skipped off. Sherlock looked at me with narrowed, possessive eyes. I was completely shocked. I was expecting him to let go of my hand any moment, but he didn't.

"Uh, um Sh..Sherlock?"

He raised his eyebrows at me.

"What are you doing?"

His half smirk played across the right side of his lips as his left eyebrow quirked up.

"Caressing your hand, obviously."

"... No I, I can see that, but why?"

"Don't you want me to?" He said; his eyes narrowing further as the possessiveness in his expression grew still. Whatever he was doing, whatever he was thinking, whatever point he was trying to prove, it was as if it didn't matter; as if I didn't want to know.

All I knew was that in that moment, and for the rest of the time Sherlock and I had together, I wanted him to hold my hand and I wanted to hold his hand. I just wanted to be with him. It was just that little act of Sherlock's hand in mine, probably meaning nothing, which meant everything to me and just made me truly realise my feelings for Sherlock after all this time. I stared into his eyes as he stared into mine. I couldn't read him. I couldn't see whether he was being genuine or joking around and since I knew Sherlock could never feel the same way for me as I do for him, I assumed he must be joking. And I didn't want my emotions being toyed with. I knew how I felt for him now, but he doesn't and will not ever know. And he'll never be able to return this feeling, I mean come on, it's Sherlock.

So I did the only thing that seemed to be the right thing to do. I slipped my hand from underneath Sherlock's and placed both of my hands in my lap. His eyes immediately widened and he sat back in his chair as if he was extremely confused. I pouted my lips out and brought them back in to bite on them before picking up my knife and fork and resuming my meal.

 _Oh brilliant._  I thought.  _You've just cocked up a really great evening. You could've just gone along with it and everything would've been fine. But no. Well done._

The waitress came back over soon after with the candle and the complimentary bottle of wine. I think she sensed something had happened so she settled the items down on the table and hurried away quickly. I looked up from my meal, flashed her a quick smile before she left and saw that Sherlock had remained staring at me in the same position. He must have sat like that for a good 5 minutes after she left before he sighed and continued with his steak.

The mood between Sherlock and I had drastically changed now. It had gone from almost flirting to an uncomfortable silence. I finished my meal minutes after Sherlock and set down my cutlery before wiping my mouth with my napkin, I've always been a messy eater. I looked around the restaurant in discomfort, trying to find something to talk about to break the embarrassing tension. All I wanted to do was apologise and confess everything but I couldn't, I can't.

"This place is nice..." I said finally, with raised eyebrows and a slight frown. "Yeah, it's uh, really..."

"Look, John." Sherlock said, leaning forward in his chair and bowing his head slightly but looking up at me from under his eyebrows. "I'm sorry if my actions have caused you to feel uncomfortable, I never wanted to make anything between us feel... awkward or... I'm sorry."

The best thing I can describe him as was a sorry-looking puppy. He had a light frown on his face, with apologetic eyebrows and that crinkle in his nose as his brows dipped. The lighting hollowed out his eyes, making his eyes look wide and remorseful. But for some reason, I felt almost angry at him; like he should know how I feel.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's okay." I muttered grudgingly.

He stared at me.

"Well what is all this anyway?" I jeered, nodding my head at the empty plates on the table. "Taking me out to the theatre, buying me dinner..."

"Aren't you enjoying it? I thought you were, I thought it'd be nice." He said, leaning back in his chair again, clearly growing offended.

"No, of course I'm enjoying it, this evening's been good, great even but I just... why?"

He came forward again in his chair to rest his elbows on the table and to thread his fingers through one another. He then pressed his nose and lips into his hands. He sighed through his nose and looked at me for a while before speaking.

"I just thought you needed something to take your mind off things." He calmly spoke, raising his head to place his chin on top of his entwined fingers. I gave him a puzzled and scornful expression. "...After Mike's death."

And then it all hit me again, like a tonne of bricks; seeing him lying dead on the pavement, his funeral, reminding me of Sherlock's, the churchyard, the note... I felt a twinge in my heart as I leaned back in my chair. I've been trying to block it all out, trying to ignore the fact that I've just lost a friend, a good friend. And he was murdered. I pouted my lips as my expression plunged into a look of sadness.

And then I felt guilty, like really,  _really_ guilty. All this time, I was thinking Sherlock was doing some sort of experiment on me and messing about with my emotions or to make some sort of point to either himself or someone else, but really he was just doing this all to distract me from previous events; to make me feel better. Maybe he really did care. I looked into Sherlock's eyes again as my mouth formed into a soft smile.

"Thank you." I said. He nodded lightly and called for the bill.


	14. Chapter 14

_John_

I was so thankful that I didn't drink that night when I returned to work the next morning. I was up to my neck in paperwork and it was bloody crazy that week with every day but one consisting of an early start and a late finish. Sarah had obviously made sure I had lots to do since I've been absent for so long (or just taken days off since Sherlock had a case) so there was a massive backlog of paperwork to sort through, stamp, read, sign etc. Then, of course there was filing them and sorting through the documents on my computer too which was mostly just updating the logs of the patients. I must have been the only available doctor in the surgery or something since I had a staggering amount of patients that week – it was almost as if some sort of pandemic broke out, just bizarre. But then, since I was the one bringing in the bacon and we had to pay the rent, pay for food, clothes and bills I didn't complain. I wish Sherlock would just get off his arse though and get a job, or pay for his services as a consulting detective but no; he just does it for kicks. Wish I could do something purely for kicks and get away with it.

Speaking of Sherlock, I didn't talk to him for another three days after that. He must have been having one of his episodes because the only times I did see him, he didn't say anything or he was there and gone in a matter of minutes. He spent most of his time, oddly enough, in his bedroom – I couldn't see his laptop anywhere in the front room so I assumed he had  _that_ to keep him company – or in the front room, either on the sofa or his armchair in his renowned thinking pose, silent as death. He was on his armchair the evening after our little outing, still in his pyjamas. I didn't really want to disturb him since he looked so lost in deep thought, so I sat down beside him in my armchair and started reading the paper. Same old celebrity scandal, prices and taxes go up to try and aid the recession (well in the government's perspective anyway), a story about a dog saving his owner's life – yeah it was all same old same old really, though the dog story was rather nice. I've always liked dogs.

Tea time rolled round and I asked Sherlock if he wanted anything to eat, of course he didn't respond. He got up about an hour after that and wandered into his room. I didn't see him again till late evening the next day, with the same sort of scenario. He was looking really tired and frail. I started to wonder if he'd eaten anything after the steak at that restaurant but by the look of him I guessed not.

"Coffee, Sherlock?" I asked, lifting myself out of my armchair and marching into the kitchen, not bothering to wait for the reply that'll never come. I could at least make him a cup of coffee and then if he still doesn't want that, well I tried. I knew the importance of a good diet but no-one can force Sherlock to do something if he doesn't want to. I put the drink down on the coffee table beside him, sat and drunk mine and then went upstairs to get changed. I came back downstairs to brush my teeth and lock up when, seeing Sherlock had disappeared off to his bedroom, I checked his mug; empty, besides the bottom bit of the drink that proves to be even too strong for Sherlock's taste. Good, at least he drank something today, even if it was a cup of coffee.

I woke up the next morning remembering I had a later start at work but with a later start means a later finish, I was expected in till gone 7pm that day. I pulled back the curtains, put on my dressing gown, went downstairs, had a shower, came back upstairs, got dressed and went back downstairs,  _again,_  to find the living room empty once more. I've got to say, first thing in the mornings I'm pretty automatic and the daily routine isn't anything exciting. I sat down in my armchair, unfolded the paper, realised it was yesterday's paper and folded it back up again. I now know what I'll be getting on my way home from work tonight as well as edible food, rather than festering cheese and godforsaken eyeballs. Well, I had half an hour till work and since I hadn't had a fry up in ages I decided to treat myself to one.

Two sausages, a fried egg, two slices of toast and a side of beans later, I returned back to the comfort of my armchair for the last ten minutes of my morning. I rested my head back on my chair and closed my eyes, intending to relax, indulge in the feeling of fullness and enjoy the silence... silence. That's what was irritating me. There was no movement in the flat, none of Sherlock's gentle breathing at the kitchen table, no violin, no nothing. It was just lifeless. I assumed Sherlock was in his room, but I'd taken a guess that he would've migrated to the front room by now since, as far as I knew, he didn't know I had a late start this morning. So where was he? Did he really just lock himself up in his room for the whole day until I returned home from work? Why would he? Despite my attempts to talk myself out of it,  _Sherlock's fine just head on out to work I'm sure Sarah would appreciate it if you turned up early, he's probably just sleeping, this is Sherlock we're talking about, John... he's always quiet;_ curiosity got the better of me and I had to check up on him.

I marched down the corridor and leant my ear against his bedroom door as to listen for any sounds. Nothing. I frowned slightly in confusion. Sleeping? I gripped the door knob gently and turned it when...

"John?" a familiar sonorous voice questioned from behind me. I turned round, releasing my grip on the knob, with raised eyebrows. Sherlock, looking extremely puzzled, in nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. His brows were knitted together and head slightly drawn back as he looked down at me.

"Oh, uh Sherlock, sorry, I..." I had to clear my throat then. "I didn't realise you were in the shower."

He took a few cautious steps towards me, his hand holding the ends of the towels that came together in the middle of his pelvis.

"What are you doing?"

Unintentionally, I formed my hands into fists and swung my arms by my side in embarrassment. I looked down at the floor then back up to Sherlock; dripping wet, his curls even more untamed than normal if that's even remotely possible.

"I was uh, just checking up on you that's all." I answered, clearing my throat again as I drew my head back into my neck. This seemed to amuse Sherlock, causing a sly smirk to form on his lips. His eyes narrowed as he took a few, more confident, steps towards me just so that we were inches apart. I could practically smell the heat radiating from his body now.

"And why..." he said, his voice almost a whisper and with purposeful hesitation. "Why would  _I_ need to be checked on?"

My tongue poked out and in slowly, wetting my lips.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, who knows what you're up to in there."

The smirk grew wider. My jaw clenched harder. Our eyes seemed droopier.

"Oh, nothing dangerous I assure you." He murmured, with a deep croakiness in his voice. I quirked my head to the side as my eyebrows flashed upwards.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

He stared into my eyes dreamily for God knows how long. Time wise, all I knew was that I was late to work after that. The sexual tension was going through the roof. My eyes slowly drifted away from Sherlock's eyes and down to his lips. The amount of times I've thought about kissing those, I wonder what he'd do if I...

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he whispered.

"I don't have to be."

He was actually grinning now. He lowered his face towards mine as I wetted my lips for the second time.

"Run along now, John. I'm sure there are a great amount of patients in the surgery that could use your..." He scanned his gaze down my body then back up to my eyes. "...Attentive eyes."

Sherlock then moved between me and the opposite wall as to reach for the door knob. I slid up against the wall and grabbed his right arm to stop him.

"And what about you?"

His eyes narrowed in thought and perplexity as he drew his left arm back.

"What about  _me?"_

"Wouldn't you prefer my  _attentive eyes_ elsewhere?" I glanced down at his hand on his towel, the hand of the arm I had a firm grasp on. I couldn't help myself. His eyes widened greedily, gaze switching from my eyes to my lips. My tongue appeared and disappeared once more.

As I released my hold, Sherlock edged himself even closer to me and then brought his face in towards mine so that our foreheads were almost touching, our lips just centimetres apart. I could feel his warm breath ghosting across my lips, I could smell the strong, earthy fragrance of his shower gel along with his deodorant which was pungent but had a slight smokiness to it. He leaned into me, closer and closer, I could feel my eyes growing heavy as I looked longingly at his lips until...

_Click!_

Sherlock's bedroom door swung open. He drew himself back up to full height. I looked down at the sound. A smug looking Sherlock had his hand firmly on the doorknob of the now half-open door. My brow knitted together in frustration. What a...

"Excuse me." He sniggered.

I reluctantly moved out of the way, taking a step behind Sherlock. I felt cheated to say the least.

"Well, what did you expect?" he chuckled, seeing my obvious disappointment. What did I  _expect_? Oh, he shouldn't have asked me that. I was thinking of all sorts by the time a wide grin spread across my face. Obviously not the reaction Sherlock was after, he watched me with great puzzlement.

"John?" Just as I turned and took a few steps forward, Sherlock grabbed me by my arm and spun me back round to him.

"John, what  _were_ you expecting?" He asked, his tone almost sounding like a plea. His eyes were large and wild as they searched me over, desperately trying to figure out what they missed.

"Tell me." He demanded. I shook off his grasp.

"I thought you could have  _deduced_  that one yourself, aye Sherlock?"

I then proceeded into marching down the corridor, into the lounge and out of 221b before he could retaliate with anything moderately clever. Safe to say, I think I won that one.

I returned back from work at around 7:30pm, absolutely shattered and starving hungry. Despite the disappointing lunch I ate from a local sandwich shop plus 4 cups of coffee, I haven't had anything else since breakfast.

"Sherlock?" I called as I ran up the stairs. Door was left wide open, again. What have I told him about leaving the sodding door open? Mrs Hudson had been out the whole day as well, something about catching up with old friends - though I could tell by Sherlock's expression that she was hiding something. I sighed. Lounge empty. Bedroom it is. I was too hungry and tired to let Sherlock know I was home, he probably heard me shout anyway.

I strode straight into the kitchen and rooted through the cupboards for something to eat. The minimal amounts of things that were edible in our kitchen was growing smaller and smaller - looks like it's going to be beans on toast again. Then I remembered I was supposed to go shopping and buy the paper after work. My shoulders drooped as my palm hit my face. Oh, for God's sake. That'll have to wait. I opened a can of beans, popped four slices of bread into the toaster and pulled out two plates. I wanted to at least make sure Sherlock has eaten one meal since the other day. He might not eat it, but I have to try. I can't just let him waste away in there. I buttered the toast, split the can of beans between us (paying extra attention to where the beans went on Sherlock's toast, he refuses to eat it when the beans aren't in the centre of the toast) and picked up Sherlock's plate.

I marched past the bathroom and held my ear against the door. Nope, he's got to be in his bedroom. But something felt strange, I can't describe it I just felt odd. I walked down the corridor to his bedroom and grasped the doorknob, listening out for him. I couldn't hear anything. I slowly opened the door as quietly as I could. Peering round the door frame, I didn't really know what to expect since Sherlock isn't one for... well, sleeping and his laptop was in the front room. No-one. I pushed the door open further so that it was flat against his wall and looked around. He must have gone out.

I was surprised at how moderately tidy his room was despite the amount of time he's spent in here over the last couple of days; no clothes on the floor, a couple of dirty plates (oh good he's been eating) on his bedside table, his bed wasn't made but then it never is and that was about it. I didn't really know when Sherlock was planning on returning, since I didn't even know where/when he went and he never leaves any notes as to when he'll be back, and as the microwave was occupied by some flipping experiment of his I decided to just leave his meal in his room.

I walked into his room, round his bed and up to his occupied bedside table. Holding the meal in one hand and placing the dirty plates onto his bed in a stack, I managed to knock something off the table. I peered down. At first, I didn't believe what I was seeing. My head drew back into my neck as my brow furrowed. No... no it can't be. My mouth dropped. My heart sunk.

A needle. A small bag of white powder. And a glass of cloudy liquid.

" _No..."_


	15. Chapter 15

_John_

That's it. That explains it. Why he's been hiding away in his room for all this time. Why he's looked pale and frail and weak. Why the curtains haven't been drawn in days and are starting to gather dust. Jesus Christ... he's been  _using_. He's been God damn using drugs.

My heart was racing, thudding harder and harder in my chest as I stared at the syringe. Though I'm used to being under pressure and am accustomed to violence thanks to the war, controlling my anger is a totally different story. I was shaking so much with rage that I had to steady myself on the bedside table. Usually I could just let it all out by shouting, but there was nothing or no-one to shout at. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't fucking believe it. There was no way that the beans were staying perfectly on the toast now; the plate was trembling violently with the shakiness of my hand causing the sauce to spread across the plate and occasionally drip onto the floor. I felt like lobbing the plate across the room and punching a hole in the wall. I was fuming.

My breathing started getting deeper, longer but faster. My mind started racing with questions, possibilities, alternative conclusions. How long? What for? When? Why? I slowly bent down to get a better look at the objects. The small bag of white powder, it had to be a non injective drug as he's mixed it with water... so... maybe, cocaine? Oh shit, Sherlock. I picked up the misplaced syringe cautiously between trembling fingers and stared at it. It was this that I knocked onto the floor from the bedside table. Definitely used. My jaw clenched to the point that it started to hurt. My eyes were clouding with livid tears. Why?  _Why?_

I heard familiar footsteps approaching down the hallway. It had to be Sherlock. I stood back up, with the needle now squeezed in the palm of my tightly clenched fist, as I turned around to see Sherlock enter, his coat floating behind him like a cape as it does. Sherlock stopped dead as soon as he saw me. Naturally, he looked surprised at my being there but his expression then changed to a mixture of worry, shock and even a touch of fright when he immediately studied my expression.

"...John?" he questioned with a soft, comforting tone to his voice; his icy eyes wide in alarm. Sherlock took a slow and vigilant step forward, outstretching his arm towards me. "What's wrong?"

"THIS!" I shouted, pelting the syringe at him as hard as I could throw it. The tears were coming and I could feel as my throat started to clog up with anguish. "This is what's wrong!"

He gazed down at the floor and picked up the needle. He stared from me to the needle in shock.

"No... you think..." he said, his voice nearing a whisper.

"And what the fuck is this?" I yelled, voice slightly breaking. I pointed down at the powder and clouded glass of water. He took a couple of cautious steps towards the bed, placed the syringe down then took some careful steps round the bed towards me, purposely not coming too close. Good thing too. I wanted to rip him apart. "How the fuck do you explain that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock craned his neck round, leaning over slightly, to look down the side of the bedside table. As soon as he spotted them, his eyes instantly met mine. For a second, Sherlock looked at me with a shattered expression. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes showed a look of pain and betrayal. He reminded me almost of an innocent child who's just had a scolding of some sort for something they hadn't done. He confused me. Why would he look like that? Instantly however, Sherlock's face warped into an expression of disgust and sheer anger. His back bolted upright and he watched me for some time. Then, Sherlock jeered his head forward, tilting his wrinkled forehead and arched brows down at me. My teeth were grinding together now.

"You think I'm using again?" he mocked, sounding almost humoured as to mask his hurt.

"Don't give me that, Sherlock, don't you, don't you dare lie to me  _again_!" I was pointing my quivering finger at him now; the plate in my other hand still trembling.

"I'm not lying, John! I've never seen that before..."

"DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME!" I yelled, taking the plate in both hands and smashing it down onto the floor into six jagged pieces, inches from my feet. Sherlock jumped back slightly in alarm. Fear returned in his eyes. I pointed my finger at him again. "Don't you  _dare_ lie to me, Sherlock! I've had enough of your lies! Tell me, what is all this?"

"John, please... just listen to me, I swear to you that I don't own that..." He extended his arms out slowly to me as he took another cautious step forward. "I'm clean, honestly..." I placed my hand on my forehead to cover my eyes and took a deep breath, then allowed the air to jaggedly pass through my gritted teeth.

"Why?" I shouted, slamming my arms down to my sides as a single tear squeezed itself from my eye and ran down my cheek. "Why would you do this to me? I thought you were clean?"

"I am clean! I've told you!" Sherlock pleaded; he looked scared, worried and anxious. "I've never seen any of that before, John; you've got to believe me!" I shook my head in disbelief, biting my bottom lip in anger.

"Then how the hell did it get there?"

"I don't know!"

"You don't know?" I scoffed. I could swear my knuckles were practically white that's how tightly I was clenching my fists.

"No!"

I wanted to believe him. I really did. The expression on his face seemed so genuine and his tone, it's like he's begging me to believe him. I think that's what annoyed me the most because I was so willing to swallow his words and move on, just believe him and go with whatever he says like I always have done but... I didn't feel I could. Not with this. Not with drugs. He was destroying himself and still denying it. Sherlock wasn't ruining just himself, but me too. I couldn't go on knowing that there may be a slight possibility he could be back using again. He was awful giving up smoking; I couldn't imagine how hard it would be to give up drugs for the  _second_ time. I just couldn't believe him.

"I don't believe you." I muttered, almost so he couldn't hear my words. But he did.

Momentarily, Sherlock looked broken. There was, even though it was just a glimpse, there was that look again, the look of a heartbroken child. I'm kind of confused as to why he would care so much about what  _I_  think of him. Everyone else's perspective on himself can go to hell in Sherlock's opinion. But it was just me, whenever I doubted him – which has only ever been a rare few times – or whenever there was a chance of me not believing in him, he's always lost it. But this... it was just an act. It had to be. He had the drugs, right here, in his room. And the needle. The used needle - full of the stuff. It was right there, cold hard proof. He had to be pretending, lying to me again just so he can keep me in the dark and carry on with his seedy little plans and habits. Sherlock's eyes hardened and his jaw stiffened as he tilted his head up to look down on me.

"I'm fed up with you keeping me in the dark, Sherlock. I need to know. How long have you been using?"

"I haven't. I'm clean." He hissed, bearing his teeth. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall ahead of him, expressionless. Whatever I had said, or maybe it was the fact that I didn't believe him anymore, had made him extremely bitter. I shook my head slowly. I couldn't believe he was still trying to lie to me. Still. After everything. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up and strode towards the window and stared out of it. He was clearly hurt but I didn't understand why. I should've been the one who was sulking around and emotionally staring out of windows for Christ's sake.

"Sherlock..." I ushered.

"I'm CLEAN!" He bellowed, slamming his fists against the window then turning round to eye me. My brow furrowed. "Don't you see what's happening? It's all happening again!" The confusion on my face grew further. "He's got someone else... He's coming back... it's all going to happen again." He exclaimed.

"W, What? Who?" I said in total confusion.

He glided over to me and clasped his hands onto my arms. Sherlock's eyes were wild with anger and concern.

"It's happening again. Moriarty, he's got someone... someone, someone new... the 'S' on the note in the graveyard? You didn't think that was me, did you?"

Come to think of it, I just discarded the thought. Sherlock told me it was nothing to worry about so I just forgot about it.

"I didn't, I just forgot about it... it said the person wanted to rip us apart..." I whispered, recalling the note. So it couldn't have been him. It was clearing talking about me and Sherlock... I shook my head slightly, bringing my thoughts back to the present. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"He wants to rip us apart, yes, and what's the easiest way to do so? Betrayal. Lies. That bridge of trust falling apart, taking away the keystone of security." Sherlock peeled himself away from me and started pacing around the room, expressing his thoughts with his hand gestures as well as his words. His mind was really racing away now. "Plant the seed of doubt, watch it bloom into a horrible mess of suspicion and insecurity and  _that's_ what really ruins people. You see all these different people: friends, families, couples, lovers – all supposedly thought to have firm trust bonds with each other - on those shocking daytime television shows who want lie detector results because they don't believe one another... same principle. One of them found something, it planted the seed of doubt and it grew... and the perpetrator won't necessarily have to do anything... just like Moriarty did. And that's what he's doing!" Sherlock spun back round to point at the drugs on the floor. "With the drugs!" He started pacing again, head down in deep thought. "He, the new guy, must have... must have researched me or something and found out about my track record and used it to his advantage." He stopped and gazed into my eyes. "Planting the drugs at a convenient time, ensuring you'd find them instead of myself then you'd suspect I was using again. That's it. That's how he wants to rip us apart - by doubt."

He was just an arm's length away from me now, staring at me wildly and desperately. Maybe he was right.

"You've got to believe me, John. This is what he wants. You can't give it to him."

I was sceptical but every fibre of my body was screaming at me to trust him. I've trusted him, believed him, for the whole time I've known him. I'm so loyal to Sherlock; I'd never go against a word he says. I can't just let this ruin us, whatever little we have, I can't. He was right. He had to be. He's Sherlock Holmes.

"But... who?"

I watched as his eyes dimmed in thought. He brought his steepled fingertips up to his lips and paced slowly back and forth in front of me, after glaring back to me and giving me 'the look'.

"Oh for God's sakes Sherlock, don't do that."

"What?" he questioned, as he stopped pacing and eyed me in uncertainty.

"You're doing the face again."

"What face?"

"You know what face; we've talked about this before." I was getting annoyed again.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions..."

"Sherlock, just tell me." I interrupted firmly.

"If you'd let me finish." He snapped, bringing his hands back down to his sides. "I don't want to jump to conclusions, see where that's gotten _you_?"

A flush of embarrassment crossed my cheeks.

"Just trust me, John." He murmured softly, striding towards me once more and taking my upper arms strongly in his hands again. His feral gaze pierced into my eyes, searching for an answer. As I nodded, my hands gripped onto his elbows in reassurance.

"To the end." I whispered.


	16. Chapter 16

_John_

I bolt upright in my bed with a cry, slamming my hands down onto the mattress either side of myself as I awake from another nightmare. I sit, slumped over, in my bed breathing heavily and sweating but shivering at the same time. A nightmare, again. After a couple of curse words under my breath, I sit and try to remember what I can whilst inhaling deeper and exhaling slower to try and steady my breathing. It wasn't coming easy this time. All that I know is that this one was a different nightmare from my reoccurring one I frequently have... I can't remember exactly what happened but I recall Sherlock... drugs and, and something was glowing... and then another scene... it's all a bit hazy but I remember the army, the gunfire and the sandy landscapes of Afghanistan... something about Bart's and that's it. I smear my face down with my hands a couple of times, wiping the sweat from my forehead and eyelids and I lay back in my bed with a sigh. Christ, it's stifling in here.

I notice that the sheet I was using as a duvet, now that the weather's gone from British to bloody Caribbean in less than 2 days, is now half way on its way down to the floor. I sit up again and look around the room, rubbing my eyes. Nope – sleep's not happening tonight. I peeled myself from the sticky bed sheets, rose out of my bed and peered out of the curtains to look out into the street. Some couple were really hitting it off in the alleyway across the street. Crikey. Yeah, best not to watch them really. After looking at the sky to judge what time in the morning it was - alarm clocks now broken, just brilliant – (it was starting to get light so I guessed about 4am) I cracked the window open slightly to let in some air and walked downstairs to get a glass of water, not bothering to put on any bottoms or my dressing gown - I didn't have the will to put on either really because of the heat, they'd only annoy me further.

I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the back of my neck and yawning still, and ran the tap in the kitchen sink. The water was pretty warm, despite it being from the  _cold_ tap so I thought I'd wash my face as the colder water came through. With a sigh, I dabbed my face dry with a damp tea towel – dread to think what 'experiment' that's been used to mop up recently – and I turn round to glance into the lounge. Sherlock sat, well squatted more like, in his chair wearing just his pyjama bottoms and staring into space. Clearly the heat was irritating him too but much more though – his shiny angered expression said it all. Sherlock hates the heat. This was probably going to be the night when he was going to actually get some sleep as well. I grabbed a glass out from the cupboard, filled it and drunk it in one, allowing the chilling liquid to trickle out of the corners of my mouth and slide down my neck. I tipped the glass up almost vertical to make sure I drank even the smallest of the icy dregs that were left.

Taking a quick glance over to Sherlock again before I returned back to my room, I carefully put the glass into the sink to wash it in the morning. I couldn't be bothered to do it now. I was too tired. I turned round and walked towards the door into the hallway.

"Bad dreams again?"

I stopped, looked at my feet and walked to the kitchen arch.

"Yeah. Sorry." I mumble, leaning against the arch and taking a big yawn again.

"Different one this time, wasn't it?" He asks, not moving. My brows knitted together in confusion. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand again, doing my best to try and remove the sleep as best as possible.

"H..." Yawn. "How could you tell?"

"You were shouting different things from what you usually do."

The silence asked my question for me.

"I came up to your room when you first cried my name and as I sat by your side... you kept..." Sherlock murmured; his voice a croaky whisper. "You weren't just saying my name you were telling me stop doing something, begging me over and over..."

Oh! Of course, I remember it now. The dream started off with me walking up the stairs to our lounge, returning home from something and it must have been the middle of the night or whatever as it was pitch black outside and there were no lights upstairs. I entered the lounge, walked around and looked for Sherlock, proceeding to walk down the corridor to his room. It was like a re-enactment of the other night. Pushing the door open, I noticed the room was an absolute pig sty. Dirty clothes, plates, bits of rubbish and such were everywhere. The stench was vile. My eyes adjusted to the even dimmer light as I scanned the room... and there was Sherlock, huddled in a corner – squatting like an animal.

"Sherlock?" I whispered, walking towards him slowly. I touched his shoulder and jumped back, falling onto a pile of filthy clothes as he spun round almost to attack me. His dark hair was matted, pupils immensely dilated and he was snarling. He then stood tall and straightened himself out, extending his pallid, withering frame and looked down at me, his snarl morphing into a twisted smile. "John..." he growled. "Look what I found..." He then gently picked the syringe between his bony fingers up from his chest of drawers, the fluid being a glowing, creamy yellow in colour. And when I say glowing, it was literally glowing. He flicked the syringe tip with his fingers and gazed intensely into the light. The glow lit up his face and gave life in his dead eyes. I told him no. I told him not to. I remember being on my knees, tugging at his tattered trousers and telling him he didn't need it, he had me. Sherlock squatted in front of me and smiled at me. He was delusional. He didn't know what he was doing. This wasn't the Sherlock I knew, the Sherlock I loved.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock smacked me to the floor with the back of his hand. I lay with a throbbing pain in the left side of my head, unable to move. I watched on, powerless to do anything, as he stabbed the syringe into the middle of his forearm on the side of his wrist. The needle pierced the skin and penetrated a main artery, causing a trickle of blood to seep from the entry point and coagulate around the bevel. My stomach twisted as I felt Sherlock inject the glowing fluid into his arm. I could hear his heart rate increasing; the thunder of the rising speed of his heart beat pounding in my ears. I could feel the liquid oozing through my own veins, churning around in my wrist and flowing up through my arm, the sensation spreading like wildfire. Sherlock's heartbeat got faster and faster, faster and faster, louder and louder. He started grinning then laughing menacingly as he tossed his head back in sheer pleasure. I was experiencing whatever he did. My temperature increased as did his, our breathing pattern synchronising into a fast, raspy, breathless chorus. All the while I begged him to stop. I shouted his name, screamed obscenities at him, but I couldn't physically do anything. I was helpless.

Finally, Sherlock stopped plunging the sickly fluid into his bloodstream and sighed loudly as he slowly tipped his head forward so that his chin met his chest. Then, almost immediately, I found I could move. I scrambled to my feet, stooping low to cautiously watch Sherlock. He slicked the needle out from his arm, his skin catching on the tip, and held the syringe tightly in his deformed fingers. It was still glowing. There was still some left. He wasn't finished. I remember Sherlock's fingers slowly closing around the syringe, clasping it in his fist. He lifted his head and looked up at me under his grimy, knotted curls. His face was dark, evil and twisted. I saw a smirk, a sinful grin warp onto his face. "Sherlock... Sherlock... stop it, Sherlock, stop it, just stop all this, please. Please, Sherlock." I begged over and over again as I watched him rise and point the needle at me in his strongly tensed fist. I started shouting at him to stop as he walked towards me, slowly, threateningly as I backed up, swiping my gun out from behind me and pointing it at his head. I begged, threatened, shouted, almost screamed at him to stop. My back reached the wall but he didn't stop. He kept coming at me, until the barrel of the gun touched his head. "Go on then. Shoot me." He snarled, with a smile. His eyes were wide, dilated, bloodshot but above all, fierce. Those weren't Sherlock's eyes. But I couldn't, I just couldn't shoot him. How could I? My arm dropped to my side and the gun fell from my hand. Immediately, Sherlock grabbed my now empty right arm, thrust it up and drew the needle up into the air and just as he plunged it down and the pain was almost imminent, the scene changed.

Afghanistan. Or at least, the landscapes were. The buildings were those which looked like they should be in London. One of which was Bart's. And I was on top of Bart's. Something had happened and there were sirens, fires, bombs, planes, tanks - the lot. Full blown war again. My squadron and I had all taken positions on the tops of several buildings, aiming rifles at other blocks, the ground and rooftops that weren't known to be allies. I can't really remember faces but Sherlock was there I know that for sure. But not next to me, on the building to our left. Close, but not close enough. Suddenly, there was rapid gunfire and I could hear the bullets screaming past my ears. In impulse, I looked to Sherlock who sat slumped behind a pile of sandbags. He was surrounded by bodies of his men who had been killed, they were most likely dead but I could see he was still breathing. I drove down several men on the opposite building and then checked Sherlock again. There was a man standing in front of Sherlock. He was not wearing our colours.

"SHERLOCK!" I shouted, jumping up from behind my guard and running as fast as I could towards him. Everything went quite. A single gun-shot was fired. I leapt from the building, propelling myself forward. I drew my firearm from my pocket and fired it at the enemy, headshot. My jump was a good one, calculated, I would have reached the roof.  _Would have._  If a bullet didn't come and knock me right off my judgement, hitting me where I was shot in the  _real_ Afghanistan, right in the shoulder, and spinning my body out of control. The familiar burning sensation of agonizing pain returned. Then, then I was falling. Just like Sherlock did. And this wasn't Afghanistan anymore. This was London. I was falling through the air, falling from the hospital roof, the positions were switched, the tables were turned and I was rushing through the air, now inches from the pavement when everything blacked out and I woke up with a cry.

Sherlock's distressed eyes met mine as he brought his hands together and entwined his long fingers.

"What was your dream about?" he asked, softly.

I looked down at my feet and, realising I was just in my boxers, crossed my arms as I resumed our stare. I wandered over to my chair, settled myself down and planted my face into my hand as I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair, letting out a deep sigh.

"I, I can't really remember, Sherlock."

I can. I can remember it all so clearly now. But at the time, I didn't really want to talk about it. I can't tell Sherlock that all my dreams and nightmares are about him. That would just sound so... pathetic. No, best just to keep them to myself really. He knew I was lying. Sherlock gave me that sarcastic look of doubt as if to say  _'come on John, I know you better than anyone so I know when you're lying for God's sake.'_

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure."

"Definitely?" he persisted.

"Why are you so interested in  _dreams_? They mean nothing really. Plus, I thought all you cared about was your work."

He snapped his head back so he was looking straight ahead, staring into the wonderful world of his thoughts again; dramatic git.

"I find the thoughts of the subconscious to be quite fascinating." He started, almost as if he was talking to himself. "Some philosophers and some scientists believe that the subconscious exposes our deepest fears and desires and a good example of these..." He briefly tipped his head to me and gestured his hands out to me. "Are dreams."

Wow. Okay. So... he... wants to know my deepest fears and  _desires_? Or? Uh.

I sat there and watched him for a second; quite literally stumped.

"Do you know what I don't really know how to respond to that." I said with a chuckle. I swear half of the time he just says things to sound clever. Sherlock smirked briefly. I left it a moment to sit in his company before I rose from my armchair and announced I was off to bed. I stopped in the hallway and squeezed my eyes together with my thumb and forefinger. I kept getting flashbacks of that scene... the scene where Sherlock injects himself with the drugs. It can't be like that. It's not like that because he's clean. He's  _clean._

I know he's not using but it still freaks me out. Just the possibility of him harming himself in such a way is enough to bring me to swear at Sherlock like I've never done before. God, the look on his face when I was shouting at him. I feel terrible. I feel like a bloody monster. I just wanted to turn back around and tell him how sorry I was and I just wear my heart on my sleeve and tell him exactly how I feel. I'm sick of feeling like this. But I just have to keep reminding myself he can't feel the same way. He never will. And plus, I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship or make anything awkward, I guess. I sighed and went up to bed to try and get some sleep. Early start.

Had to be in the surgery for 7:30 that morning. 7:30am - 6pm that day so it was going to be a long slog, and thank God it wasn't busy. It was pretty much dead that day. It had gotten to about say late afternoon, I had only had about 9 patients and so I decided to go into the waiting room where all the fantastic magazines and papers are kept, just to see if I could maybe come across one that isn't 400 years old. I was sifting through the magazines, finding no hope until I stumbled across some drug help leaflets which were hiding under a 2006 issue of _Okay._  The whole drug situation was still fresh in my mind so I fancied a quick look, just out of interest.

I sat down on a chair; the waiting room was actually empty now, and flicked through the leaflet. It was a chunky thing, a good lot of information about each drug, under the microscope, the short-term and long-term effects, side effects, the law, average prices, this and that, etc. I flicked past heroine, cannabis and found cocaine. First there was snorting, nope, then smoking, nope, and then injecting. Right. So according to this, injecting cocaine gets the drug to the brain quicker, makes sense, it has a half an hour 'boost' at minimum, can cause ulcers and gangrene...

"John?" a familiar voice questions, coming from across the room. Next thing I know, I've been there about 15 minutes reading through several large leaflets and I've got Sarah a few feet in front of me, clutching some numerous amounts of files to her chest. Woops, longer than I thought.

"Oh hi, Sarah, I was just uh researching..." I answered, waving the chunky fliers. "... For a patient."

She gave me a disbelieving, yet amused, look. Yeah there's no point in lying to her.

"Did you know that injecting cocaine can cause ulcers?" I said, opening one leaflet again just to clarify my new found knowledge. I looked up at her for a response. She nodded with a smile. "And did you know," I stated with a nervous chuckle, "that it's more likely to get an overdose when injecting too... and that injecting can cause heart failure and, well, we all know what happens to people who have an overdose, they die don't know, most of the time anyway..." I could feel myself rambling and my voice getting shaky. Bloody nerves.

"John? What's wrong?" Sarah asked; her voice calm but firm, as she comes and sits next to me. "Who is it?"

Of course she can tell. Half of her siblings have all been drug addicts once or twice in their life. I slump over with a sigh and rest my elbows on my knees, allowing the leaflets to sag with my hands.

"Nothing, really, it's nothing, it's just... I found a needle in Sherlock's room and a bag of cocaine and the liquid but, but he's not using. No, no, no, he's clean! He's clean. It's just someone planted it there, don't ask me why, but Sherlock insists someone's planted it there."

"And you believe him?"

"Of course I believe him, it's just these bloody things." I reply, frisbeeing the leaflets onto the coffee table. "They scared the shit out of me. They just made me think, that's all."

I leant back into my chair and folded my arms. I looked at Sarah, she looked sceptical and concerned.

"Do you believe that he's not using again, John? Are you sure of it?" She places her hand onto my arm in comfort.

"Yes of course I believe him! I'm sure of it, yeah. Yeah I'm sure. He can't be using, no."

She raises her eyebrows. I turn my body towards her in defence.

"What are you trying to say?"

"No, no, I'm not trying to say anything, John. It's just, finding the solution and the needle there in his bedroom is a pretty big suggestion to say he's using again – but then, but then!" She says quickly, raising her hands to calm me down, seeing as my jaw clenched tighter with every word she said. "But then it doesn't really sound much like Sherlock not to, oh I don't know, hide it if he  _was_ using would it? He's always been pretty organised, even if it was organised  _clutter._ Maybe it was planted after all!"

"Yeah, yeah it was planted, I know it was." I persisted, resuming to slump in my chair.

I heard her rise from her chair and I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. I raised my head.

"Okay then, well if you need a chat, John, you know where to find me."

She gives me a brief smile and walks towards the door to reception.

"A drink maybe?" I call after her. Sarah turns round to look at me. Well, what can I say? I've been rejected by almost every girl I've tried it on with over the past couple of months. May as well try with every opportunity I get. She smiles.

"Yeah, go on then. I'd like that. You could even have a dance if you'd like!"

"So we'll make it a date?" I kid with a grin.

"Won't your boyfriend be upset?" She says teasingly.

Boyfriend. Ah. Sherlock.

"No, I'm sure he'll be just fine with it."

She grins and pushes the door open.

"I'll give you a call later; tell you what's going on." I say.

"Yeah, well I'm free tonight by all means."

I nod. "Alright then."

I look back at the leaflets laying on the table.

"Do you want to take a few of them? We've got loads, John, honestly. Just take a few for 'Research' for your patients." Sarah says; her voice louder now as she walks back to me with her arms empty. "And since it's quiet, why don't you head off home? You've only got a couple of hours left anyway and it's dead in here."

"Really?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'll be fine seriously. I've got Sue and Mark in the back and Rose on reception. It's dead in here."

I don't move, she's got to be joking.

"Go on, get out of here! It'll give you more time to think up an idea for tonight. And not the circus again, for God's sake, you know where that ended us last time!"

We both laughed. Funny really, I haven't spoken to her properly like this since we split up. There's been the odd nod and small talk but this was like nothing had ever happened. I get up, fold the 3 leaflets in half and wedge them into my back pocket. I walked into my office, got my coat and came back through to the waiting room and past by Sarah.

"I'll uh, see you later then, I'll call you later on, probably about 7 or something, yeah?"

"Yeah that'll be great!" Sarah says with a wide smile. She strides over and embraces me, planting a kiss on my cheek. "I'll see you when I see you."

I walk out the surgery a chuffed man.

Sherlock's going to be so jealous.

 


	17. Chapter 17

_Sherlock_

That day, I had been busying myself with attempting to find any evidence that the culprit left, when he or she planted the drugs in my bedroom, so that I could prove to John, with data, that the drugs weren't mine and that I  _am_  clean. Although, as far as I can tell, I think that John  _does_  believe me, I can't leave anything to chance. I can't have John doubting me. Not John. I couldn't care less what any other person thought of me, I've had comments about my 'strange behaviour' for as long as I can remember, but I couldn't and can't deal with John ever thinking any less of me. He's always been fascinated with me, well I mean who wouldn't be, and he's always been so loyal, believing just about everything I say and putting his whole faith into my judgements. John's always complimented my skills rather than quote on how much of a 'freak' I am. He's always made his astonishment and admiration pretty clear - using nearly every term in the English language - and I wanted to keep it that way. I felt I needed that security of knowing that he still believed me and so I needed to prove my innocence. And what's the best way to back up an argument? Cold hard proof.

The night before, I wasn't planning on getting any sleep as I felt like I didn't need any – I had slept well enough a couple of night's back – so I stayed up and watched John. I know he thinks that I spend the majority of my time downstairs on my laptop or occupying myself on an experiment of mine, but lately I had been spending my nights up in John's bedroom sat in his chair and analysing his behaviour whilst he sleeps, making the odd note or so on my laptop. I only ever go upstairs once he's fully asleep though – just so that he doesn't know that I'm there - which is give or take around 34 minutes after he's fully comfortable in bed. His first period of REM sleep, which is indicated by his muscles fully relaxing and his eyes starting to move rapidly under his closed eyelids, then occurs a couple of minutes later. The periods can fluctuate between 5-20 minutes each but in total John has around 5 paradoxical sleep episodes, one or two of which include his dreams. I never know which period his dream will consist in, but I am made aware when the muscles in his neck and then his arms contract suddenly and he starts talking, murmuring at first, then it gradually escalates to shouting, which is normally a couple of minutes before he wakes up. Whether it's the dream or the sound of his shouting that wakes him, I don't know.

And that is why I couldn't understand the fact that John said he forgot his dream the night before. He told me that he apparently couldn't remember anything about it yet I found this hard to believe. John had that particular dream during a, slightly extended, period of his paradoxical sleep so, in theory; he would've remembered it since the activity of the neurons in one's brain during REM sleep is quite similar to that during full consciousness, which would hypothetically make it more likely to remember the dream. I could tell he was lying, it was completely obvious, but I didn't want to push him too far; even  _I_  am slightly afraid of his uncontrollable temper sometimes. But also, more annoyingly, I was slightly distracted by John's limited amount of clothing which he was wearing. I had seen glimpses of John in just a towel a couple of times when he comes out of the shower and darts upstairs and I had also seen him in his dressing gown, which he is so very fond of wearing, but never had I seen him in just his underwear. He had put on a couple of pounds, again, as I could see by his waistline. And, well, as for his boxers, they were looking rather tight... but anyway, enough of that.

From the shouting in his dream, the begging and the pleading that I witnessed, I could only assume that it was about something serious that had been playing on his mind all day, something that had really upset him. The one thing that immediately jumped into my mind was, of course, the drugs scenario. Whether that  _was_ part of the dream or not, I had a hunch and decided that I needed to assure John that I was in fact telling the truth, the drugs weren't mine, and therefore giving myself reassurance that John still trusts me. And so, I spent the day scouring the flat for clues of whom the perpetrator could be, how they broke into the flat and what they had actually planted.

I soon figured out that, disappointingly, the culprit did in fact just stroll through the front door. The windows were all bolted shut and I remember not locking – nor even closing - the door when I popped out to get some information about the shootings from my homeless network, which despite Lestrade's decision to take over the case (as he thinks he has it all 'sorted') it was still on my mind. This then suggested that the person was either extremely uncreative (which would be very frustrating, I hate the dull ones) or he/she seizes the easiest opportunity they are given rather than search for alternative solutions, so they could be smart – quick on their feet.

After that, I started on the floor first for evidence; searching for any signs of footprints – any dirt or residue that could've been left behind by a dirty shoe – however even though I looked everywhere, there was no signs of any marks. Clearly, the dry and crisp weather over the last couple of days had contributed to the non-existent footprints found. If it had been wet, the shoes would have either left flecks of soil through the flat or most certainly deposits of rain water in the shape of his/her footprint. It was either the weather, or the culprit was wearing extremely clean shoes. Or both. I then proceeded to seek for fingerprints, no result. They were wearing gloves. They knew what they were doing then, this says experienced. I inspected for traces made in the dust, furniture that may have been moved, any traces of hair, but nothing.

Since finding any evidence of whom the culprit may be was proving to be unsatisfactory, I proceeded into analysing the actual mixture in the glass as, when I lowered myself down to the floor to study the fluid, it seemed more dilute than I remember dissolved cocaine to be. Taking a look at the bag, I found it to be unopened. Curious. I picked up the glass and dipped my finger into the solution and tasted it, regretting that I did. Extremely salty and yet a hint of sugar. I took the packet of the powder and the vile liquid to the kitchen and set up my chemistry equipment for another experiment.

I evaporated the water from the liquid so that I could analyse the salts and liquids left behind under my microscope. I was right, of course: salt and sugar but then I found icing sugar and a splash of milk with it. Strange combination. I searched the kitchen to see if these ingredients where from our kitchen and my assumptions were proved to be correct. I found the sugar canister to be moved a fraction to the right of where it's normal place is. The icing sugar packet, now completely empty, was found in the bin – John had decided to bake for some bizarre reason and roped me into doing it with him since I don't cook - it's not that I don't know how, I just find it tedious and a useless skill especially for myself since I only eat when I have to anyway. We baked a Victoria sponge and I had the task of whisking the mixture which I thought I handled pretty well, until the electric whisk took on a life of its own and the cake mixture went everywhere. John was furious. I was then only allowed to ice it once he and Mrs Hudson made another one. I heard them talking rather loudly about how I was 'sulking' in the living room. I was not sulking. I don't  _sulk._

I sat back at the kitchen table and stared at the packet of powder, weighing it in the palm of my hand. If this  _was_ genuine cocaine, this would be worth roughly £200. I had my suspicions that it wasn't actually cocaine and I had my questions as to why this wasn't actually opened or mixed into the solution, rather than the perpetrator using random salts and sugars. I pushed my previous experiment to one side and found a clean slide. I opened the packet, mistakenly by pulling it apart, and watched as the powder exploded into a small blizzard like explosion. The powder fell into a small, delicate heap on the table. I was extremely tempted to sniff it or taste it, but I couldn't take that risk. I felt the over-coming urge to try it, see if it was actually cocaine, feel that buzz, that kick again, that fantastic feeling of a stimulated mind... but thankfully I stopped myself. Regaining my control, I scooped a small amount of the powder onto the slide, placed it under the microscope and studied the substance.

It was indeed pure cocaine. C17H21NO4. I sat back in my chair in thought. So the packet was planted but not opened and not mixed, yet they had enough time to rush into the kitchen and carefully get as many white solutes as they could find... then I looked at the pile of the cocaine. They didn't open it as I did as they knew it would have exploded everywhere... I jumped up and looked about the kitchen in the drawers. Just as I thought. No scissors. A small knife would have done the job to slice the corner off, but even then all of the knives in our flat are just blunt butter knives. So they planted it, unopened, knowing they couldn't find anything to open it with and they didn't want to risk the powder straying, so they made a sort of counterfeit cocaine solution with white solutes, knowing that even though I'd figure it out… John would fall for it. Neat.

I went back to observing the cocaine powder under the microscope for some time, seeing how far the magnification would take me until the image distorted into a blurry mess. This is when John strolled into the flat, looking extremely chuffed.

* * *

_John_

Something in my stomach jumped when I walked into the flat and saw Sherlock at the kitchen table at his microscope. Not like a scared sort of jump, but an excited sort of feeling. I can't really explain it. I don't even know why I felt like it, but I thought I'd put it down the anticipation of seeing Sherlock's reaction to my date tonight with Sarah. As much as I just wanted to come out and say it, first date in months – you've got to cut me  _some_ slack for being nervous, I thought I'd play it cool. Act like nothing happened, then sort of slip it in at the last minute or something.

"Hi Sherlock." I said, patting a rhythm on my thighs. He threw an uninterested glance at me and went back to his chemistry toy thing. I looked around the flat, pouting my lips slightly. Then I spotted myself in the mirror – shit, better have a shave for tonight. I walked up to the mirror. What would I wear anyway? I straightened my tie up. Maybe a suit? I could see out the corner of my eye that Sherlock was watching me.

"Who is she?"

I looked round at him and rocked on the balls of my feet slightly, swinging my arms to and fro – slight habit of mine that I need to stop. Oh for God's sakes, really? He can't seriously…

"Is it Sarah?"

I stopped and stared at him, my mouth falling open slightly.

"How could you possibly…" I sighed. "Oh never mind."

Suddenly, Sherlock glided out of his chair and right on up into my face. I swear his awareness about personal space is next to nothing.

" _Is_ it Sarah?" He demanded, not taking his gaze off me. I just rolled my eyes and before I could say anything, Sherlock started circling me like I was a piece of meat, like I was his prey. I think he circled me for the third time when I started to get irritated. I thought he was going to do it once and stop but no, he just kept going.

"Sherlock. Sherlock stop that."

He lifted my arm and looked under it. Seriously?

"Sherlock, stop it for God's sake."

He prodded my lower back, making me thrust my chest forward in alarm.

"Sherlock!" I snapped. He stopped at my side as I stared at him, but he wasn't looking in my eyes, he was staring at my cheek. He took my chin in his hand and as I felt a fluttering sensation in my stomach, he turned my head to the side and ran his finger of his opposite hand down my cheek. He released his hold on my face and stared at his finger.

"Lip gloss." Sherlock whispered. Immediately, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and glared at me.

"Yes, yes okay it  _is_ Sarah, Sherlock, keep your hair on." I confessed, shaking my head slightly. Sherlock drew himself back in surprise.

"Got anything in? I'm starving." I huff as I march into the kitchen, checking the fridge. Bag of big toes. Nice. At least it wasn't a head – now _that_  shook me up a bit. I don't really know why I asked that in the first place – Sherlock, getting the shopping? If there was anything in I should've known about it as I'd be the one who bought it.

I look in the cupboards and decide a cup of tea would be the best option since I'm not that hungry. Sherlock still stands in the middle of the living room, watching me. I decide to tell him more about my planned evening, even though he most likely won't want to know about it, though, there's something about making Sherlock jealous that just makes me laugh every time.

"I'm actually going out with her tonight." I say as I get out a mug and a teacup and place them on the counter surface. "On a date." I switch on the kettle and look to Sherlock who I can see is growing more and more annoyed by the second, still staring at me with that predatory which is now turning slightly jealous. "Tea?" I ask, after I place two tea bags into the cups. Sherlock dramatically swishes his coat off and chucks it onto the sofa before he stands onto his armchair and jumps to sit in it. I know he thinks he looks cool doing that but really, he just looks like an overgrown five year old about to have a tantrum.

I lean on the kitchen side as I watch him 'think' again. Ideas about tonight started cropping up in my brain; I saw one idea on the way home from work which might be quite good… I pouted my lips in thought. Then, something important sprang into my thoughts.

"Oh and Sherlock," I said, pouring out the boiled water into the cups. "Don't follow me tonight, just leave it, yeah? Don't ruin things by turning up." I walked over and handed him his teacup, he took it and looked at me sarcastically.

"And why would I do that?" He scorned with a shrug.

"Well you like to turn up to things at exactly the wrong moment." I said, raising my eyebrows – hinting strongly about the last time Sarah and I went on a date.

He smirked briefly, clearly pleased with himself.

"Oh so are you trying to 'get off' with her again?" Sherlock mocked, taking a sip from his dainty, little teacup after blowing the tea several times.

"So what if I was?" I replied defensively.

He placed his cup in his lap and looked at me, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What if I  _was_ trying to get off with her?" I repeated. His eyebrows raised and a frown appeared onto his face momentarily.

"Well that's entirely up to you." Sherlock looked back into his teacup and ignored me. He only ever does that face when he pretends he doesn't care. Brilliant. A teasing yet discrete smile played across my face. So it  _did_ matter to him. I thought I'd play it for all it was worth.

"I might take her out dancing." I said, placing my mug down on the end table next to my chair. "I saw this advert at this community hall a few blocks away about some social ballroom thing happening tonight."

Sherlock placed his tea down and glided over to his desk, picking up the newspaper. He opened it and pretended to read the contents, still standing.

"So I might, you know, take her out for a drink and then take her dancing…"

"I don't care." He snapped.

"They'll probably do a bit of ballroom…"

"Fantastic."

"We could waltz…."

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and glared at me, brows knitted together.

"You don't know how to waltz!" He spat.

I placed my elbow on the arm on my chair and rested my temple on my forefinger and my cheek on my thumb, raising my eyebrows and drawing my head back slightly.

"No I don't, but I could learn."

He stared at me intensely.

"You know, I could probably get Sarah to teach me. She knows how to dance." I teased.

"I know how to dance!" Sherlock announced, a little too desperately.

"Really."

I knew he knew how to waltz. He shouts at the people on  _Strictly Come Dancing_  that they're doing it wrong.

"Really!"

And then I had an idea. And that idea grew. And then I thought, well why the hell not. Sherlock could see I was thinking and his eyes searched me over quickly.

"No, you couldn't..." I started.

"Couldn't what?" He interrupted.

I looked him up and down with my mouth in a slightly opened smile.

"You couldn't teach me."

"What makes you think I couldn't?"

"Because you can't."

"I can."

"No you won't."

"I will. Stand up." Sherlock demanded, slapping the newspaper down on the desk and taking a step forward. My heart was in my throat. I slowly got up and stepped towards him, trying not to laugh. He was being deadly serious, it was hilarious. I can't believe I was doing this. Waltzing couldn't be that hard though, it's just stepping around the floor and making it look pretty. Sherlock took my right hand in his left hand and held it out the side. He then wrapped his arm round my side and I felt him grasp onto my upper back, by my shoulder blade.

"Place your hand on my shoulder, roll your shoulders back and straighten your back."

I reluctantly placed my hand on his shoulder, letting my arm flop loosely. He tapped my elbow up higher with his own elbow.

"Left elbow out, right elbow down." Sherlock tells me, checking my posture over. An irritated expression flashes over his face.

"I said straighten your back, soldier." He snaps, a smirk appearing briefly across his lips. I wet my lips with my tongue as I follow his orders. "Now, obviously I'm the man in the situation since I'm taller and far more masculine..."

"Sorry?" I interrupt, with a disbelieving chuckle.

"Anyway. Back straight, left elbow at 9 o'clock and right hand at 2, study how my feet move as you'll need to learn the footing with your dance with  _Sarah._ Now, follow my lead."

And with that, he pulled my body in closer to his and he glided around the flat in a box formation, gracefully rising to tip toes with every corner of the box we got to. I had my head down, concentrating on his footing, forehead inches away from his chest, as I plodded around clumsily and tried desperately not to tread on his feet.

"Not as easy as it looks, is it?" Sherlock's rich voice murmured, his lips brushing against my ear as he stooped his head low. I lifted my head and looked into his eyes, then stared at his lips. He pulled himself away and watched me with his predatory look. It was then that I started to relax into it. Staring into Sherlock's eyes, not aware of Sherlock's increasingly intense grasp he had of my body, listening to Sherlock's hushed mutter of "1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3"

"See you're getting the hang on it." Sherlock said quietly. "I told you I could..."

"Shut it, Sherlock. You're ruining it."

He smiled briefly and stopped, holding me steady.

"Now, since you've grasped the basics of waltzing... we're going to try something..." Sherlock spread out his hand full on my back, slipped his arm up further and pulled me in closer to him so that our bodies were flat against one another's. My heart was racing a mile a minute. "...A little more romantic," My eyes widened... surely he didn't mean, "I'm sure Sarah would  _love_ this." He finished. Oh, right. Of course.

Slowly, Sherlock moved my extended right hand into the small space between our chests, turned his hand round so that his palm was on the back of my hand and placed it on his chest as he entwined his fingers through mine. I really was the woman in this situation. I can't say I didn't like it though.

"We're just going to sway now, John. Can you manage that?"

"Of course I can."

Then we started swaying, very gently and very slightly, from side to side, ever so often moving our feet so that we were ever so slowly, gracefully spinning in a circle too, with our pelvises pushed into one another's and our chest slightly apart. We couldn't take our eyes off one another's lips.

"Rest your head on my chest, John." I watched Sherlock's lips whisper. It took me a minute to process what he said. I gawped at him.

"What? No! No, that's what the woman does!"

"And in this case, you  _are_ the woman, John." His sonorous voice mumbled, his greedy eyes not breaking their gaze from my lips. He actually looked like he wanted to eat me alive. Sherlock's eyelids flicked up and his piercing look met mine. "Just do it."

So I did, half unwillingly and half cautiously. I wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock was up to, whether he actually wanted this or not. Whether he actually wanted  _me_ or not. Or if he was just doing this because of the dance with Sarah, but why would he make me place my head on his chest? It was... nice though, strangely. Sherlock pulled me in as close as possible so that now our chests were pushed against one another's. Our entangled fingers were still relaxed gently on the right side of his chest whilst my lazy head occupied the left. And there we were, gently swaying side to side, not taking any notice of the time that was flying by – I guess we were just both stuck in the moment.

Then I felt Sherlock's body fully relax and he rested his head gently onto mine. Minutes later, he slowly moved his head down further so that his face was buried into my shoulder. If someone told me a couple of month's back that we would be waltzing, swaying and cuddling in our flat, I would have punched them in the face. Because I would've thought they were taking the piss. I've only ever wanted to love Sherlock, but I can't tell him. If this is all we are, all we are going to be, I'll accept.

I closed my eyes as I felt Sherlock slowly move his hand up my shoulder blade to my neck, dragging my jumper up with it. I then felt something lift from my back pocket with the pull of my jumper. I heard a soft sound of something hit the floor. Sherlock stretched his head over my shoulder to look down at the floor.

"What was that?" I asked, opening my eyes and backing away from Sherlock to look down at the leaflets on the floor. My eyes widened and mouth parted. Shit.

Sherlock kneeled down onto the floor and picked up the leaflets and looked at them. He extended himself to full height and glared at me, with a vicious snarl forming on his face. He clasped the leaflets tightly in his hand so that they started to crumple.

"I was just about to ask  _you_  the same thing."


	18. Chapter 18

_John_

We stared at each other for some time waiting for the other to talk, well I was waiting for him to explode really, but I think Sherlock was waiting for me to explain myself. His face was warped into a vicious grimace whilst I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Look, Sherlock... I can explain...” I started, stuttering slightly as I held my hands up. Behind his snarling expression, I could see the sheer distraught in his eyes.

“Drug leaflets?!” He shouted, waving the pamphlets around. “I told you, John! I’m clean! I don’t need any help! I don’t need any help!”

Sherlock threw the leaflets down with such force that they hit the floor with an ear-splitting slap. I could practically see the rage flowing through his blood.

“I don’t need any help!” Sherlock shouted at me, gripping hold of his hair either side of his head and screwing his eyes shut. I could sense some serious history here; I could only imagine what he went through when he was _actually_ using. We’ve never talked about the subject, every time I’ve thought about it, I never actually go to bring it up. It seemed like a pretty touchy subject with Sherlock, drugs and all. His actions just proved how touchy the subject really was. It must have been really bad. I felt so awful – I completely forgot I had the leaflets in my pockets! I should have never taken them from the surgery, should have never even looked at them.

“I thought you trusted me?!” Sherlock spat, tearing his hands from out of his hair and throwing them down to his side, I honestly thought he had torn out clumps of his hair then he threw his hands down so fast. He stared at me with broken eyes. I swallowed hard.

“I do! I do believe you Sherlock, it’s just... I was worried!” I begged.

“Worried?!” He exclaimed, a sarcastic chuckle behind his words. Sherlock spun himself round to face the fireplace. He threw his body back round to face me again and sneered at me. “Worried?! Why would you be worried?”

“Sherlock...” I started, sighing slightly.

“Why would you care?”

 “Don’t...” I whispered as my voice broke, staring at him remorsefully.

“No, it really baffles me as to why people care? I mean, especially you, over all this time, why do you care _so much_?” Sherlock said, gesturing his arms around exaggeratedly. Jesus, he was furious.

My blood boiled. I gritted my teeth. My God, I swear then I just wanted to explode. I wanted to grab him, punch him, shout at him about how I’ve felt, how I’ve always felt about him. How I’ve always loved him. How I’ve recognised that after all this time, this feeling I have for him it’s... different. It’s not men in general, it’s... him. It’s just him. It’s only him. Only Sherlock. I wanted to tell him that every time someone asked me if we were together, I would smile. I wanted to tell him that every time someone asked me if I was gay, I would honestly answer that I didn’t know. Because I’m not but... it’s just Sherlock. I couldn’t bring myself to say it though. I couldn’t let down that barrier, that guard, that makes me feel secure and in control. So I just rolled back my shoulders, upped my chin and imagined I was back in the army. And so I ignored everything - well tried to – and channelled my anger into diverting the conversation elsewhere.

“What, so let’s say if _I_ was in some sort of similar situation, like this, you’re saying you wouldn’t worry about _me?_ ” I fired back, not meaning to sound half as selfish as I did; I just wanted to see what he’d say. I raised my eyebrows and looked up at him under my forehead.

“No, I wouldn’t. It’s your life; you do what you want. What you do has no effect on me.” He spat, scorning at me like what I had said was ridiculous. My face dropped and then twisted into fury. Something inside of me snapped then. I formed my hands into tight fists and clenched my jaw harder as my heart ached heavily in my chest. That... bastard. So he doesn’t really care at all?!

“But don’t you see?” I shouted back, throwing my arms in the air. “Everything _you_ do has an effect on _me,_ everything in _your_ life impacts _mine..._ it’s meant to work both ways!”

“But why do you let my life affect yours so much?” Sherlock yelled. Confused Sherlock and Angry Sherlock do not go together well, let me tell you that. The more confused he gets, the more wound up he becomes. A vicious circle. “I don’t understand! Why does everything _I_ do, or don’t do in this case, affect _you_?”

“Because I...” I shouted, stopping myself suddenly. I bit my lips between my teeth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I frowned at the floor. I couldn’t do it. I looked up at Sherlock and stared into his vacant eyes. “God you just don’t see it do you...” I muttered under my breath. His brow furrowed as the expression of anger subsided and uncertainty rose. But by that time, instead of just pouring my heart out to him and taking pity on him, I was bitter. Extremely bitter. I wanted Sherlock to feel the pain I’ve been feeling all this time. He doesn’t care about me. He never has.

“You really are heartless. Look at you.” I jeered, turning my nose up at Sherlock as I pieced together thoughts and ideas in my head. I really thought he cared about me, or at least felt something – if anything, however small – like I do for him. Obviously not. “All those times, all those times like getting into my bed... holding my hand at the restaurant... feeding my paracetamol... bloody waltzing and swaying with me, acting like you lo-... you didn’t mean any of it did you?”

I had remained to stare at him whilst I listed out all of the times where he had lied to me. My face was growing hotter and hotter and I could feel my voice rising. And then it clicked. All those times... They all have something in common; Sherlock’s control. It was always Sherlock’s idea.

“It was an experiment wasn’t it?” I said, my voice almost a whisper as I realised. Sherlock’s eyes widened. Of course... That was it. It was all a big experiment of his. My anger then shot through the roof. “Am I just part of an experiment of yours, is that it?!” I shouted, pointing a finger at him.

“John, I...” Sherlock pleaded, stepping forward to me from the fireplace.

“That was it wasn’t it! I’m just a piece in an experiment to you, aren’t I? AREN’T I? What was it for then? Huh? Work out whether or not John freaks out when Sherlock acts gay around him? To see what John will do - how he’ll react? To ‘analyse’ whether John has feelings for the great consulting detective? Is that it?!” I was proper yelling at this time, walking back and forward, away and towards him, shaking my hands in his face, waving my arms around - I was seething. I stopped and glared at Sherlock, he was speechless.

“Well, it bloody worked! Are you happy now?! That you’ve finally gotten your results?” I hissed through gritted teeth. “You’ve spent all this time, all this time just fucking with me, just toying with my emotions when I generally thought that it meant something! And now... now,” I laughed. “Now _you’re_ upset?! JUST BECAUSE I _CARE_?!”

“John, please!” Sherlock pleaded, shaking his head at me, his eyes now full of regret. I wasn’t having any of it. I wanted to kill him.

“No! No no, Sherlock, do you know what? Screw you,” I squeezed my eyes with my thumb and fore finger as I sighed, trying to calm myself down. I slapped my hands back down to my side and waved Sherlock away, like I was swatting a fly. “Screw you. I’m going out.” I pushed him out the way, grabbed my coat from the back of my armchair, spun round and stormed out the flat, throwing open the – funnily enough – closed door and hearing it bang against the wall. Another thud. I think his skull picture fell off the wall too. Good.

I got to the stairs and was about to take the first step down when I heard,

“You were wrong.”

I stopped still and turned my head to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sherlock standing just in front of his desk, a couple of paces from the door to our living room. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of ‘running into his arms’ so to speak just because he called after me, so I stayed frozen still.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. “Well you were wrong both times really...” He continued, lifting his head up and quirking it to the side as he talked, seeming like he was speaking to himself rather than, I think, trying to apologise to _me_.

“What are you talking about?” I replied, my tone still harsh. I turned my body side on but looked at his feet.

“The other night when you had another bad dream and when I asked you about it, you were confused as to why I cared about dreams, stating that all I cared about was the work. And then there was the time a couple of weeks ago at Scotland Yard, you said there that the work is my life. You said it’s what I live for.”

Sherlock took a couple of steps forward so he was standing in the arch of the door.

“You were wrong.”

I looked up and into his glistening, sorry eyes. The usual iciness in his irises had changed; the blue looked almost soft, caring... human. God, there was that pang again in my chest. I watched as Sherlock slowly took another two steps forward so that he was standing beside me. I still remained side on, looking up at him sceptically.

“It’s you.”

My furrowed brow lifted slightly. My heart ached. As much as I wanted to believe he meant it, I knew I couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t be telling the truth. Sherlock can’t _love._ He’s said himself that emotions are boring, pointless, fly in the ointment or some rubbish like that. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he can never feel the same way about me as I do for him. His eyes told me sincerity but I... I just didn’t know anymore. I sighed and shook my head lightly. I didn’t know what to do. I was angry, upset, surprised... it was all a bit overwhelming.

“No, Sherlock.” I whispered. I cleared my throat and held my clenched fists firmly at my side. I stared at him for a while.

“I’m going out, Sherlock. I’ll be back later.” I turned round, not looking back and left my distraught Sherlock at 221b. And...

***

_Sherlock_

John didn’t come home that night. I didn’t hear anything from him. I _haven’t_ heard anything from him. I stayed up and waited for him until dawn, sat in my armchair and watching the clock as the hours flew by. 6, 7o’clock. He would be with Sarah now. 8o’clock. 9o’clock. 10, 11, midnight. 1, 2, 3am. 3:14am, sunrise.

Then, I got a text. Just a single text. But it wasn’t from John.

_03:16  
Let the games begin – S_


	19. Chapter 19

_Sherlock_

I glared at my phone screen as those four words bounced around in my mind frantically. _“Let the games begin... Let the games begin...”_ I began pacing the living room, all the while staring at the phone. Games. What did they mean _games_? What did they want me to do? Entertain them for a while, watch me dance? What games were they talking about, what did it all mean? What was going to happen? Where’s John?

Reflecting on the current situation, I felt a slight sense of déjà vu. It all seemed pretty familiar with the work of Moriarty. And that was the main reason why I didn’t reply. After much contemplation, I figured that this person obviously used to be/still is in some sort of association with Moriarty, maybe his right-hand man or maybe just one in Moriarty’s criminal web. Why the anonymous number was trying to make me play these ‘games’, I was unsure. To complete Moriarty’s work? To finish Moriarty’s obsessive objective that he set out to achieve - my death? I didn’t know. At that moment, those three words caused more questions that I care to remember. Though, throughout my numerous queries, one thought and one question alone stood solid in my mind. Where was John? I was concerned for him, at first worried of where he could be, however I soon shook myself out of the paranoia and put his late return down to him staying round Sarah’s house, for the obvious reasons. I refuse to believe anything’s happened to him. Well. I’m sure Sarah and he had a more than pleasant night last night.

I sat in my armchair for the rest of the morning in my pyjamas and dressing gown; ignoring the sunrise as the rays pierced through the half closed curtains, taking no notice to Mrs Hudson coming up to drop off tea, disregarding her attempts to start a conversation – though I did not speak to her, I listened. She asked where John was, talked about how ‘lovely’ Sarah is and went on and on about how happy she was that they were back together. I sat in ignorance and waited for John. But John didn’t come home. Then, 7 o’clock in the morning rolled round and I assumed he would be back later, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I quickly placed my phone down onto the side table, screen facing down, leapt up from my armchair and reached for my laptop when my phone suddenly started vibrating. The deep, low humming sound of the vibration on the wood echoed through the flat. I strode towards my phone, took it between my fingers and thumb, faced the screen to me and observed the number of the caller. Unknown number. Cautiously, I pressed my thumb down onto the answering button and slowly raised the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I asked, after a pause.

There came some raspy inhalations, then a long, deep exhale.

“Morning, Sherlock.” A familiar voice said weakly. Though this voice wasn’t male. It was female. At first, I was confused as to whom it could be. Then it clicked. Sarah.

“Sarah?” I whispered, puzzled as to why she was calling me.

At the mention of her name, Sarah gave a whimper. She was crying. Just as I was about to ask why, there were another few raspy breathes and she spoke again.

“We’re going to play the final games, Sherlock... You like to play games, don’t you, Sherlock? Little puzzles and, and... Riddles to solve.” She said, slowly.

My brow relaxed as I realised. ‘S’, Sarah. This would explain the sudden friendliness towards John. ‘S’ wanting to rip us apart, so would this mean jealousy? Get back close to John, take him away from me and ‘rip us apart’...

“It’s you...” I said. “You’re the one sending all these notes. Wanting to play games...”

Another whimper and a snivel.

“You bet it’s me, Sherlock. Now, we better get on with it. As you may have already guessed, Sherlock Holmes... I...” Sarah’s voice cut off. Then, suddenly, I heard a distant but clear male voice yelling “SAY IT!”

“What was that?” I snapped, my brow knitting together again in confusion. Sarah’s whimpering increased.

“Oh... dear...” She sniffed. “I guess, I guess you h-heard that? I guess I _do_ need to control my temper.”

I suddenly suspected something else was going on here. What was Sarah talking about?

“What’s going on, Sarah?” I asked calmly.

“You’ll find out all, all in good time.” Sarah stuttered. Fear grasped her speech. “But surely, you’d recognise this tactic, no? I came up with it myself, and Jim was very fond of the idea.”

“Jim... Jim Moriarty?” I asked, coolly. The silence answered my question. Sarah was just a mouthpiece. This was the same tactic for the first time Jim Moriarty and I met. “Who is this?”

“Patience, Sherlock... patience.” Sarah blubbered. “You’re a very impatient person, Sherlock Holmes. Firstly, we have to play the games.”

“I’m not going to play in your _games._ ” I hissed.

I didn’t want to participate in anything to do with games, look where it got me last time with Moriarty. I nearly got myself and the only people I’ve ever remotely cared for killed. Whoever this was, I was not agreeing to anything that would satisfy their strange desires.

Then there was a pause. I pondered whether or not to speak, elaborate on what I had said, but no. I decided to listen to Sarah’s steadying breathing and crying and wait for a response, intrigued as to where this conversation was going.

“You will, once you know... I have John.” She finally announced, followed by an outburst of sobbing. My shoulders dropped and eyes widened slightly. Suddenly, this wasn’t as asinine as I thought out to be. I thought it all to be quite comical, I could have just phoned the police straight after this phone call and tell them about Sarah’s situation. However, this changed things. I instantly became defensive, protective and angry. I wanted to find John.

“Who is this?” I snapped. My tone was sterner. I could feel my temper becoming more irate and less controlled. “What have you done with John?”

“Oh, J-John’s... John’s all right, f-f-for now...” Sarah choked, clearly through floods of tears. “B-but you, you won’t find him unless... you participate. Play the games, find John. Easy.”

“What if I just hang up now and call the police?” I asked, regaining composure.

“I wouldn’t do that... if I were you, Sherlock. I have men, women and children scattered around London, who all have explosives strapped to them... and they’re ready to blow. They’ve all done it... voluntarily of course; I made them all sweet deals they couldn’t resist. You make one wrong move... get anyone else involved... and I have enough C4 planted citizens, to blow up the entire City Centre.”

“How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

“Do you want to take that risk?”

No. I straightened myself upright as I realised I will have to play in these sick games.

“A lot of innocent people will die, including John, Sherlock... if you don’t do these itsy-bitsy, little tasks. So, are you in?”

After a long pause, I grudgingly responded. “What do I have to do?”

Suddenly, there was just silence. The phone crackled slightly and I could hear Sarah pleading for me and crying, shouting my name, something about come and help her. I listened intently as the signal cut off and her sobbing was replaced with a low continuous beep. As I pulled the phone away from my ear, instantly, my phone vibrated in my hand. A text.

 _07:05am_  
Number 13 bus will arrive at Piccadilly Circus at 7:33. Board it. You have until 8o’clock to find the terrorist planning to assassinate everyone on that bus, with a SMG. Find them, stop them. If you are successful, you will find they will be holding an envelope containing letters of John’s whereabouts. If you are unsuccessful, well, you’ll be dead.   
\- S

I couldn’t think of anything to do about Sarah. If I called the police, people would die – including John. I just had to assume she was okay. I didn’t have enough time to worry about her anyway. I had less than half an hour to get changed and catch a cab to Piccadilly. At first, my intention was to run straight out of Baker Street and to Piccadilly Circus by foot, but I needed to keep a cool head and stay practical. Walking would take 33 minutes exactly and running probably just over quarter of an hour. Doing so in pyjamas would attract more attention and as I needed to do this task as low key as possible, getting dressed and blending in would be the best choice. I threw on my comfortable black trousers, my ones that I run in best, then my black shoes, purple shirt and of course my coat and scarf - wouldn’t go out without them. Slipping my gun into the back of my trousers, I ran out of the flat and caught a cab to Piccadilly with little time to wait for the bus.

Within minutes of exiting the cab, I boarded the number 13 bus. The countdown started. I have 17 minutes to find this so called terrorist, carrying a sub-machine gun – not one of the easiest guns to hide and be totally inconspicuous, then stop them from assassinating everyone on the bus, including myself. I started analysing the surroundings, the people, everything immediately. Problems started appearing; it was busy, very busy, which meant a lot of constant shuffling, adding to the noise of loud pointless chatter. Then there was the fact that the bus was double decker, two stories, the terrorist could be on either floor and this would take longer to find them.

“S’cuse me, sir?” The bus driver asked gruffly. “Where to mate?” I looked at his face. He had clearly asked me that question already judging by the irritation lines in his forehead. Obese, high cholesterol, single, unarmed... not the bus driver then. I judged, with the traffic, the bus would be at West Arm in 17 minutes. Since this was the destination the bus service was scheduled to terminate at, I went with Aldwych. Digging out spare change from my coat pocket, I just had enough to afford a bus fare.

2 minutes.

I took a couple of steps forward and gathered my thoughts. It was more than likely that the terrorist was on the bottom floor of the bus rather than the second floor as being on the ground floor meant that they could easily wipe out the bus driver first, therefore cutting off connections via radio (i.e. police) and then preventing people from escaping through the doors. Being on the second floor could be a possibility but it would be risky, as the gun shots would be heard from the floor below and that would give people a chance to escape out of the bus doors and also give the bus driver a chance to call the police. In situations like these, I don’t think criminals would waste time on disposing of the most valuable pieces of the puzzles – the bus driver. I came to a decision not to waste precious time on observing the second floor. Even if the terrorist _was_ on the second floor, which would be very stupid and highly unlikely, they would proceed into coming down the stairs anyway and then I could shoot and ask questions later, if needs be. Staying on the first floor of the bus, I scrutinized each person very carefully as I walked to a spare seat.

3 minutes.

Businessmen, tourists, citizens, a stag party, a mother and a baby, more businessmen... no body of particular interest. I sat down at the seat behind the mother carrying her child. Of what I could see, there was no suspicious behaviour from anyone. Men and women on their phones, several men reading today’s paper, a toddler being exceptionally loud whilst his two mothers cooed over him... but then I spotted something odd. Out the corner of my eye, a middle-aged man of around 45 - army-styled hair cut and remarkably tanned – was staring at me. I met his gaze. His facial features were stern, broad and strong looking with a muscular chin and large forehead, the face of a stereotypical soldier. But his eyes showed softness and in this case, fear. I narrowed my eyes in confusion and he stared at me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I was confused about his look of fear. Was he just startled because he knows he’s been found out?

6 minutes, only 11 minutes left.

We were coming up to Trafalgar Square, hundreds and hundreds of people flooded the streets. I watched the burly man as he shuffled awkwardly in his seat. I needed a plan. I averted my gaze as to not seem too suspicious to other members of the public but as I looked back, he was writing something down on the back of a receipt. Once our bus drove up to the next stop, the man and I both rose simultaneously and that’s when I noticed he was unarmed. Nothing. No bags with him either. He brushed past me and I felt a hand delve into my pocket.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, throwing myself round to force his hand to withdraw. The man’s eyes widened and he scuttled off the bus quickly. I adjusted my coat collar, smoothed down my shirt and sat back down in my seat, checking my pockets. Oddly enough, nothing was stolen, though a small note of paper was left behind.

 _‘In front of you’_ it read.

I looked out of the bus window just as we drove off. The man stood and watched me, nodding slowly. I glared at the person in front of me.

The woman with the baby. The baby whose face you cannot see. The baby who is wrapped up incredibly warm for the beginning of August. The baby who the woman is clutching onto incredibly tightly. Next to her was a laundry bag, look fit to burst. Who knew what she kept in there? Faceless, oversized baby with a heaving laundry bag - I left nothing to chance. Time for a performance.

“Hey!” I said, tapping the woman’s shoulder lightly. She flicked her head round instantly, quickly and sharply. She stared at me with wide, wild blue eyes. “Gorgeous baby you’ve got there!” I cooed, with a wide smile. “What’s her name?”

The woman clutched the large bundle closer towards her bosom. “His.” She hissed. Wrong. The bundle of clothes was pink and lilac. Unless she wanted to dress her boy in pink and lilac clothing, which is statistically less common, I should think that that ‘baby’ is a girl.

“Oh! Sorry! What’s his name?”

She hesitated. ‘ _Reluctant to share the baby’s name?_ _How strange.’_ I thought. The woman turned back round to face the front of the bus. In doing so, the fabric slipped slightly, revealing the barrel of the gun. Clearly, the gun was dismantled making it appear thinner and easily to disguise as a baby - but it only took seconds to click the butt into place.

“His names Ben.”

12 minutes. We were coming up to Aldwych.

I leaned in closer to the woman’s ear.

“Unless you name your weapons, I don’t think that that’s a baby.” I whispered, quickly as I watched her face drop. “Now don’t do anything too stupid, I have a gun too.”

I slipped my hand under my coat and found the handle of my gun, curling my finger around the trigger. I could hear her breathing getting faster. Suddenly, she jumped up and spun round to face me, dropping her ‘bundle of joy’ clumsily onto the floor and revealing the SMG. Screams sounded. The bus driver slammed down on the breaks. I jumped to the side in alarm as the woman dived onto the floor for the gun and grabbed the two pieces, hastily putting it together. I needed to act fast. I needed the envelope.

I whipped my gun out from behind me and pointed it at her head, jabbing her skull hard just to alert her of the situation. She stopped immediately and held her hands up slowly, though kept her face staring at the floor. People started backing away frantically. The screaming, yelling and crying did not cease.

“I’m going to give you one chance, now give me the envelope.” I asked coldly, though my tone gave a slight touch of unintentional desperation.

“I don’t know what you mean...” the woman uttered back with a sarcastic tone. Her long, sleek black hair fell like a curtain over her face.

14 minutes. I loaded my gun. The threatening clicking sound prompted her in the right direction.

“Okay! Okay!” She exclaimed, slowly lowering a hand down into her back pocket of her jeans. She drew out an envelope and handed it to me. I snatched it away and just as I was about to turn and leave, she swiped a knife from out behind her and thrust it towards my legs. The blade skimmed past my calf, just slicing my trousers. In retaliation, before she could strike again, I struck the side of my open palm of my other hand down into the side of her neck, just below her jaw line and directly onto the jugular vein, with severe force – hoping for a one hit knock out. It paid off. The woman collapsed into a heap in the middle of the bus. I couldn’t have shot her, there were too many witnesses. I would have gone straight into prison for murder and this is not what I needed. At least now I could have claimed it was self defence.

I looked around to see people frightened, some crying and some huddling on the floor. Knowing she would regain consciousness soon, within a matter of minutes, I darted towards the front of the bus, wrapping my scarf around my face so to only leave my eyes uncovered. As I reached the doors, I pointed my gun at the bus driver.

“Open the door!” I shouted. Without threat, the bus driver would have probably refused to let me leave and would have kept me there for the police. I didn’t have time. The doors swung open as the startled bus driver slammed his hand down on the controls. I sprinted out of the bus, slipped my gun back into my trousers and wrapped my scarf back round my neck. If I stayed on the bus, it would have been inevitable that I would have had to have made a statement for the police. I ran fast, using my map of London in my mind to navigate me as I made for alley ways, backs of shops, small and quiet streets, anywhere that was out of sight. I soon stopped when I found a fire escape of a closed down shop – one of many. Sirens started to echo through the city as I scaled the ladder and sat on the steel platform, well out of the way. Moments later, I felt my phone vibrate and breathing heavily, I took my mobile out of my pocket.

 _7:54am_  
You move fast! Almost lost you at some points. That silly cow thought she had a piece of top secret information of some crap like that in that envelope. She was assigned to assassinate everyone on that bus and then deliver that letter. I should know – I hired her to! Shame she’ll have to die now. She was a cracker. But Jim never accepted failures. Since you’ve caused more of a stir than I thought you would, go ahead and have two more letters than intended.  
\- S

I tore the letter from my coat pocket and ripped open the envelope, pulling out a folded A4 sheet of paper. I unfolded the contents and read the letters.

\- a - o - -    - o o -   - o - - i - a -

It was like a game of hangman. My phone vibrated again. I looked around suspiciously; the timing was just too good to be true. He must be watching me.

_7:55am  
H - - - - -   - - - -   H - - - - - - - _

_\- S_

I pieced together the puzzle.

H a - o - -    - o o -   H o - - i - a -

I gritted my teeth together in frustration. I had no idea. No clue. This was where John was being kept from me and I was just a couple of stupid letters away from finding him. So close and yet I had to go through with these pointless games that just earned me trouble, a couple of letters, more trouble and more problems. I brought my knees up to my chest and leaned my head back against the wall. I was helpless. Another vibration. After a long pause of hesitation, I pulled out my phone.

_8:01am  
I hope you’re not getting bored yet. You’ve got 9 minutes to get into the nearest underground and board the Piccadilly Line. There will be one train with an X on the front. Get on it. If not, say bye-bye to Johnny-boy. - S_


	20. Chapter 20

_Sherlock_

I scaled down the ladder of the fire escape and as my feet hit the pavement, I brought my open hands up to my bowed head and closed my eyes. I had my palms facing towards one another, my face in between either of my hands, with my forefingers in level with my temples; I find it easier to think this way. In my mind, mapping out the route I had just taken, I calculated that I had ran for 3 minutes from where I ordered the bus driver to stop (Strand) and I then headed up Southampton Street, ran down three alleyways, sprinted behind several shops, dodged six cars and I figured I must now be in Floral Street.

Now being alert of my whereabouts, I confirmed that the nearest tube station which had access to the Piccadilly Line was the Leicester Square station. Instantly, I darted west, down Garrick Street and entering onto Covent Street. I didn’t stop running once I entered the tube station. Putting aside my hatred for the underground - the temperature increase, the smell and above all the amount of idiots cramming the carriages to get on with their tedious lives – I swiftly scanned Lestrade’s oyster card (I knew it would come in useful one day) and glided down the escalator, infuriating many people as I bumped into them in my hurry.

I reached the platform with seconds to spare. The train had already arrived and the last few people were desperately shuffling their way on. I didn’t have time to check whether or not the front of the train was marked with a red ‘X’, however I took a guess that the said train was undoubtedly the right one, since it was leaving at 8:10 – in one minutes time – and that was 9 minutes from the last text from ‘S’. I wanted to run to the front and check to make sure my predictions were accurate, I can’t stand being wrong, but I had to go with my gut instinct. And I hate doing that. My mind controls everything about me. The body is merely transport and emotions are just irritations which can be ignored. That gut instinct however is always there. I always had a plan; I always knew what was going to happen. These tasks however, I didn’t know what was going to happen at all. I had no control. I was being pushed to my limit.

I jumped onto the first car of the three, just as the high-pitched beeping sounded, alerting passengers that the doors were about to close. The train was quite busy; all 84 seats of the car were occupied, along with 39 people standing. The interior looked shabby and in need of refurbishment, with the floor peeling, seats where filthy and marks of dirt on chair handles and numerous fingerprints all over the windows. Judging by the look of the train, it must been part of the 1973 stock. Just as the train took off, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

_8:11am  
Well done for boarding the correct train. Wasn’t that hard, was it? Gain control of the train before it stops at the next station and I’ll give you some more clues to where John is slowly dying. If not, well, I’ll leave it to your imagination. – S_

The four words _‘John is slowly dying’_ caught my eye first. I felt my heart harden and a strange lump form in my throat. This changed matters entirely. This meant that I had even less time than I thought. I looked up from my phone and stared at the door to the driving cab at the front of the train. Without hesitation and slipping my phone back into my pocket, I charged towards the door, slaloming through those who had awkwardly chosen to stand in the middle of the car between the two rows of seats. I could see out of my peripheral vision that many people were watching me, not that I cared in the slightest. All that mattered was John.

Knocking on the one-way window of the door, I knew I had to act fast. Keeping a low profile on the train would be next to impossible, but I needed a plan - one that would explain my determined expression to the public and one that would appeal to the railroad engineer who had opened the door. I analysed him instantly. Physical appearance was nothing special, balding slightly, average weight, average height. I could see he was naturally sceptical, going by his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow when looking at me, yet a jolly man, judging by his smile lines around his mouth and creases under his eyes where the skin has overlapped too many times, also a bit of a family man too by the looks of it, as his wallet was sticking out of his cheap, polyester trouser pocket – not one with a lot of money then – and sticking out of his wallet where a couple of pictures of 3 children and a woman, beloved husband and devoting father it is then. I could tell that the pictures had just been removed to view, then he had most likely slipped them back in carefully before stuffing his wallet into his pocket. Pulling at the heart strings was my best bet.

Tears clouded my vision as I widened my eyes and exaggerated the look of desperation on my face. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath in. To pull this off, I had to give it everything I had. I needed to be totally convincing.

“Hi, I uh, I’m so sorry but... I really need your help, my little girl, my gorgeous little girl...” I started, making my voice waver slightly. I raised my arm and pointed in the direction to where we had set off from, running my other hand threw my hair. “She was right by my side and then when I ran onto the train, she was gone... she’s gone!”

The railroad engineer looked at me sympathetically and rubbed his neck as he listened.

“She was right there and I let go of her hand and I’ve lost her! I don’t know what to do, this is all my fault!” I choked, causing tears to roll down my cheek as I bit my lips between my teeth. I raised a clenched fist up to mouth as I let the false tears pour.

“No no, mate, look it ‘appens all the time.” The man replied in a comforting tone despite his strong cockney accent. “Right, what we’ll do is we’ll call the security at Leicester Square and we’ll get them to look for ‘er and keep ‘er there, yeah?”

I nodded slowly. “What does she look like?” He asked.

I peered down briefly at the pictures sticking out of his wallet.

“She’s 5 years old, small, blue eyes and long, curly brown hair...” I answered, describing the little girl I saw in the photograph. “She looks more like her mother than me...” I left my voice to trail off.

“Bless...” He said with a smile. “And what’s she wearing?”

I sighed, pretending to struggle to remember. I squeezed my eyes together shut. Clothes... clothes... I described the first thing that jumped to mind.

“She’s wearing a white and black striped jumper and a pair of jeans.” I replied eventually, opening my eyes to look at the railroad engineer.

“Right okay, it’s all right mate, we’ll find ‘er I promise.”

Fearing that I wasn’t going to get into that cabin, I turned up the drama.

“But what if she’s already gone? What if someone’s taken her? What if she’s hurt herself?” I acted, forcing more tears to stream from my eyes. I started to shake too, adding more panic to the situation.

“It’s all right, it’s gonna be fine, I swear.” He reassured, out-stretching his arm and placing his strong hand onto my shoulder. I squeezed my eyes together with my thumb and fore-finger, just how John does when he tries to compose himself, and sighed. I glanced behind the railroad engineer to see a wall-mounted, padded seat, just in the small walkway between the entrance and the two driver’s seats. 

“I just need to sit down... I just need to sit down.” I whispered shakily, purposefully looking behind me at all the occupied seats. The man looked at me understandingly and glanced from me to behind him a couple of times.

“’Ang on a sec.” He muttered finally, taking a few steps back and craning his neck round a corner though still holding the door open. “Oi, Jim!” He said, “We’ve got some fella ‘ere who’s lost ‘is kid, s’alright if ‘e sits in ‘ere for a bit innit?” I turned my back on the conversation, looking up at the ceiling and blinking a few times to ensure the tears were still coming.

“Yeah, ‘ere ya go.” The railroad engineer spoke as I turned back round to respond. He held the door open for me as I entered. The walkway was small and thin, most space occupied by storage compartments that jutted out of the lower parts of the wall. There was then a larger room where on the left and round the corner, the driver was sat with his hand grasped onto a joy-stick sort of mechanism, pushing it forward at a slight angle. There was then a small computer screen above that, many buttons on the dashboard and on the side to the left of the driver and a corded telephone to the right, fixed onto the dashboard just below and to the right of the computer screen. The large windshield wrapped around the side of the train, though was separated into two windshields by an emergency escape door.

“There ya go, just relax; we’ll get ‘er back in no time.” The railroad engineer said with a smile as he patted the chair several times with his hand and walked back to his seat. ‘Jim’, the driver, peered over his shoulder to me briefly. I pulled the seat down and sat on it, pulling my phone from my pocket to check my messages. I wiped my eyes of the tears and blinked several times as I realised that I had one new message.

_8:12am  
If all’s gone well, you should be in the driving cab in a couple of minutes. Look under your seat, you should see a black box. Gain control of the train. – S_

I glanced at the two men quickly, reassuring myself their eyes were purely on the road ahead. The railroad engineer was now punching some numbers into the corded telephone. I peered down under my seat and into the small steel compartment that my chair seat was sat upon and sure enough, there it was. It was a small, black, wooden box with a golden lock to keep it sealed. I grasped the side of it with my hand and pulled it out slowly, making sure not to make any unnecessary noise. The railroad engineer was now on the phone, describing the imaginary child. Placing the chest onto my lap, I examined it quickly: Indian black wood, probably of the Dalbergia latifolia timber, excellent craftsman’s ship with smooth edges and fine detail of the feet, however with a long slit in the back of the box, spreading from edge to edge. Preventing any sudden sound, I gently eased the lock upwards with my fingers. The box gasped for air as the lid sprung open. I took another cautious fleeting look at the men. The railroad engineer was still on the phone, seeming to have a good, hearty chat. The driver was facing dead ahead. There was no room for error.

I lifted the lid up and let it stand at an 80 degree angle. Inside, laid an old looking rag and on top of that, a tinted brown 250ml glass bottle of fluid. I rolled the bottle over to glance at the peeling label on the opposite side, already guessing what it could be.

 _CHCl3_ it read.

Chloroform. I straightened my back up in the chair, staring at the label.

I dipped my chin into my neck briefly. I knew what I had to do. Before closing the lid to the chest, I took the bottle and rag in one hand and then slipped the now closed box back into the compartment with the other.  I heard the railroad engineer say goodbye, saw him hang up the phone and then strain his head over his shoulder to look back at me. Between his goodbyes and his movement to look over his shoulder, I had just enough time to place the bottle and rag into my lap, pull my coat over the items and plant my face into my hands, having my elbows resting on my knees and my back hunched over.

“You alright back there, mate?” He asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just thinking of my little… Molly.” I replied, with the first female name to jump into my mind. I lifted my face out of my hands and rested my arms across my lap, pulling my coat further over the bottle and rag to ensure they were completely out of view. The man then nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, they’ve got 5 blokes looking for her now so they’ll find her soon and you’ll have her back no time.” He said, turning back round to watch the blurring darkness of the tunnels. I seized my opportunity to open the bottle and dampen the rag with the solution, making certain I held my breath for the while the bottle was open.

“I dunno what I’d do if one of _my_ kids went missing, I’d be going bloody mental!” The railroad engineer laughed without turning round. The driver muttered something in return. I screwed the cap back on the bottle quickly and placed it carefully onto the carpeted floor. Rising from my seat, I shrugged my coat back out of the way as I took a step forward, unsure for whom to target first. Despite my efforts to keep a cool head, my heart was thudding hard in my chest. I kept reminding myself that this was for John; I would see John again once I did this, see him safe and that’s all that matters. I wasn’t concerned for anyone else’s livelihood, I just wanted John back. Safe. Alive. And that was what drove me to do it.

I decided to go for the driver first, since he was the stronger looking of the two. Without hesitation, I pounced upon him, wrapping my right arm tightly around his neck and covering his nose and mouth with the rag. Instantly, the driver’s hands clawed away frantically at both my arm and my hand, almost as if he was confused on which one to try to fight off first. The railroad engineer fell from his seat in surprise, bashing his head on the metal wall of the train. Whilst the driver’s struggles weakened and his efforts waned, the other man lay slightly dazed on the floor. I felt Jim the driver go limp in my hold and as I unclasped my right arm from his neck, I saw the railroad engineer stagger to his feet. I clenched the rag in my fist. He lurched forward and threw his fist over his shoulder towards my face. I dodged the punch skillfully, pushing myself against the wall before grabbing the man’s shoulders and throwing him back to the floor, causing him to bash his head again, against the dashboard. His body blundered down onto the carpet once more as I pinned him down by my legs, sat on his back and clasped the rag to his mouth.

His efforts proved to be much more of a challenge than the driver’s as his arms awkwardly came up behind his head and slapped, clawed and punched any part of my body he could reach. Like a horse, he chucked his head up and down frantically, which I, after numerous attempts, stopped by pushing his face down onto the floor, restricting his struggles further. Within 20 seconds, his efforts diminished and he lay limp and lifeless on the floor. I rose to full height, standing over the railroad engineer’s body and straightened my jacket. I turned round briskly and hauled the driver’s body out of his seat and onto the floor next to the railroad engineer’s. I took position in the seat and observed the computer screen, watching the numbers slowly decrease from 21.5 to 19.7mph. I whipped out my phone and sent a text to the unrecognised number.

_Have gained control of the train. Driver and railroad engineer will be out solid for approximately 30 minutes. – SH_

A reply came shortly after.

_8:13am  
H a - o - d    w o o -   H o - - i t a -_

_You now have a choice. Stop the train at the next station or change the route and pull into a cavern up ahead. If you stop the train at the station, I will give you some letters to John’s whereabouts. But the police will be waiting for you. Stop the train in the cavern, I’ll give you more letters but you’ll most likely injure a couple of poor, helpless passengers when stopping. You decide - quickly though, the trains coming up to the cavern. – S_

I had already made up my mind which option I was going to pick. I didn’t care who or how many people got injured, I couldn’t risk being caught by the police and waste more time. Time was paramount, now more than ever since John was ‘ _slowly dying_ ’. But then what struck me was what John would say, surely he would understand that I was doing all this for him?

Having decided which choice, I scanned my eyes round the driving cab searching for any instructions on how to change the tracks in a case of emergency. My eyes found the computer screen, I saw now the speed had fallen to 16.7mph. Maybe a slower speed was a good thing, it gave me more time. I then spotted on the computer screen a tab at the top of the monitor saying ‘ROUTE’. I tapped it with my finger. A map appeared on the screen, with the course of the train highlighted. Much like a phone screen, I pinched my fingers on the screen and the map zoomed into the current destination. There were several other tabs that lined the bottom of the screen, one which was highlighted in red: ‘CHANGE ROUTE’. I selected that quickly. A pop-up box then appeared onto the screen, accompanied by a female voice reading the text.

“Requesting to change route…” She spoke. Immediately, another box flashed up.  
“Request denied.”

Suddenly, the corded phone started ringing. ‘Probably the control centre’ I thought. Instantly, my phone vibrated and I read the text.

_8:12am  
Let me take care of that. – S_

I watched as the computer screen turned to static, went into a frenzy of flashing and then turned to black. A virus. Momentarily, the screen returned to normal again followed by another pop-up box and the woman’s voice.

“Request accepted. Changing to manual mode.”

A virus to take control of an entire train. Neat. Unexpectedly, the train shuddered and sent vibrations rippling through the carriages. The highlighted course then vanished and the woman’s voice instructed me to select a new destination and route. I ran my finger along a shorter line that lead to a sudden stop, quite close to our current location. Once I tapped to confirm my chosen route, the train shuddered again and there was an ear splitting screech from the tracks moving outside. I then kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, watching for anything other than train tracks or the constant tunnel.

All of a sudden, a brick arch appeared into view and was gone in a split second. We must have entered the cavern. In impulse, I grabbed the joy-stick like controller and hastily pulled it towards myself assuming that this was the way to slow the train down. I was right. The breaks screeched painfully as the speed fell from 15.8mph to 10.9mph in two seconds. Right when the buffer stop was illuminated. Pulling back on the controller wouldn’t do anything now. I threw myself onto the floor, squeezing my eyes shut and wrapping my arms around my head, as I curled into fetal position just as the train collided with the buffer stop. My body was thrown into the recess where the driver places his feet and I was smacked violently against the front of the train. I heard the windshield smash and the instant screams of the passengers. Travelling at that speed probably wouldn’t have done such damage with just one car, but with the two cars colliding into one another, bouncing back then doing so again made the crash much worse.

The deadly silence settled. Once the instant shock was over, I drew my head out of my arms and peered around with my mouth and eyes wide open. My heart was racing. It was darker now; I presumed the headlights of the train had been smashed out. The light in the cabin was flickering uneasily. I slowly rose out from the recess, hauling myself up onto my feet by leaning on the dashboard. Instantly, I regretted getting up so soon. A shock of pain surged around my ribs. I gritted my teeth and temporarily squeezed my eyes shut as I assessed the damage: minor head injury, a few bruised ribs, maybe even possible breakage, but apart from that I was fine. I listened out for any sounds. Moaning, wailing and some ghostly screaming echoed through the train. Gazing around the driving cab, I could see the front of the train had completely crumpled leaving the emergency door hanging slightly open. The entrance to the driving cab from the car was still intact and I could hear loud groans coming from the passengers. I wouldn’t be surprised if many had severe bruising, broken limbs and possibly snapped necks, especially those who chose to stand and where thrown off their guard completely.

I straightened myself to full height and adjusted my jacket before pulling out my phone just as it vibrated once more. Suddenly, there came harsh banging and loud shouting on the opposite side of the door to the cabin.

_8:15am  
Good choice on stopping in the cavern. Very good choice. Now get the box and get out of there. – S_

Immediately, I did as was instructed. Whilst holding the right hand side of my ribs, I hobbled over to the chair I had previously sat in, leant on the wall and slid the black box out of the compartment. I propped it under my arm and headed for the door which refused to open until I forced it off its hinges with a shoulder barge consisting of my entire weight and strength. Falling out of the train and stumbling onto the grit, I noticed that the train had slid back a couple of meters from the buffer stop after the two collided. I peered up at the crumpled front of the train as I walked round the corner to get a better scale of the crash. My eyes widened as I saw that the inside of each car was now devoured in complete darkness except a few, rare flickering lights. I walked backwards and further into the shadows without taking my eyes off the trains.

Snapping myself back into reality, I shook off my astonishment and responded to the vibration of my phone.

_8:18am  
Congratulations on the number of injuries and possible deaths you have caused today, Sherlock. Open the black box – S_

Despite my lack of sentiment for anyone, I can honestly say I felt something then. Not for them specifically, but for what John would say if he knew I had hurt these people, possibly murdered them. I could hear his voice telling me how appalled he was of me. I could see the look of disappointment in his face. No. No, John would understand. I did this for him. This is all for him. This is all for John.

I slowly knelt down on the gravel and placed the box in front of me. I knew there was nothing else inside of the chest. I checked it after I pulled out the rag and Chloroform. I looked at it in perplexity. No, surely there was something else. I took the chest in my hands and raised it to eye level, inspecting the inside of the box thoroughly and then advancing to the outside. The slit. It was purposefully carved into the wood. But why? I stared back inside and pushed my fingers onto the wood. It moved slightly. I knocked on the wood with the middle knuckles of my fingers. A hollow sound. There was another compartment then. I placed the chest back onto the floor and with both sets of my fingers, pushed down on the inside of the box and slid the piece of wood out. I discarded it to the side and took the contents in my hand.

The small, black coloured, rectangular remote sat comfortably in my palm between my fingers and thumb. The remote had a single red button. I stood up straight, raising my chin slightly but not taking my eyes off the remote. My phone vibrated again. I swiped it out of my pocket and read the message.

_8:23am  
You know what to do. Blow up the train or John dies. – S_


	21. Chapter 21

_Sherlock_

‘What would John do? What _would_ John do?’ I kept asking myself as I gripped the small black remote tightly in my hand. After all _John_ was the soldier. _John_ must have undoubtedly made a lot of life or death decisions, deciding who to end and at what cost, despite morality. I on the other hand, I just solve how criminals do it, not why or what drove them to do it, just how. I’ve never even considered giving the reason why any sort of thought at all, there’s been no point. I’ve never cared. But now I had been thrust into a situation which actually had me wondering, for the first time, what _did_ drive all those criminals to kill? Why did they do it? Was it for revenge? Money? Love?

I lifted my head slowly and scaled the size of the train, calculating roughly how many people were inside, how many lives would end today, how many other lives will certainly be affected because of a simple push of a button. My mind was racing a mile a minute. I could feel my heart rate increasing still, my breathing becoming slightly faster. I could hear John again: telling me not to do it, telling me to leave him, that he’d understand, that around 300 lives are more important than one. But they aren’t. They _aren’t_ as important as John. I needed to stop myself, stop myself caring. I turned my back to the train again, bowed my head and took in a deep breath.

This was for John. John was dying. I needed to do whatever was necessary to get him back, whatever the costs. I couldn’t start to care about a group of mediocre citizens just because it is deemed immoral. Caring would save _them_ in this case, but it wouldn’t save John. And he is all that matters.

I start to take slow but long strides forward away from the train, keeping my head held high as I ran over the possible circumstances of what might happen once I detonate the train. The most plausible would be for the train to derail and skid across the floor in either direction until the carriage hits the wall of the cavern. I would have to stand a good distance away from the train so to keep myself as far from the explosion as possible. Hopefully, I would not sustain any injuries or burns if I stood far enough. This was for John.

I reached a total of 50 metres from the train, the recommended shortest distance you can stand from an explosion with it being completely safe, and turned around to face the train once more. My eyes scanned the train for a final time, noticing several more lights had flickered out and left that part of the carriage in complete darkness, before I was set to turn around again - yet something, or someone, caught my eye. A young boy, around the age of 6 or 7 with his face and hands pressed firmly against the glass. He had tanned skin, short blonde hair in a basic military style cut, and a pair of soft blue eyes that were full with terror and fright. Despite the look of fear, the resemblance of that child to John was uncanny. I found myself hesitating for a moment as I watched his mother appear next to him, in the same pose. She then gripped hold of her child and he buried his head into her stomach. For a second, I was overcome with a surge of sentiment. Maybe I could save them somehow? Maybe the ‘S’ person was bluffing? Maybe John isn’t actually dying at all and all this is just to see how far I am willing to go, to see how far I could be pushed until I break. No, I couldn’t take that risk. My eyes slipped to the floor. This was for John.

I turned my back on the train and closed my eyes. I’ve seen one man be blown to bits at Baskerville and I quite frankly didn’t want to see a whole train go up in flames. As I held my chin up slightly and lifted the remote in my hand to my waist height, I opened my eyes slowly and looked down at the remote. I then thought about how I may have been seen as a murderer, a criminal, but more importantly I thought about how, despite my brief contemplations of morality, this decision was easy. There was no strong urge; no tremendous amount of feeling that was stopping me from deciding between one or three hundred lives. It was just that, easy. And for that moment, I was somewhat disgusted with myself. Underneath, I am exactly like those criminals, the men and women I help to put away. Being pushed enough, I am willing to sacrifice anything for the ones I want, for the ones I need. I clenched my jaw. This was for John. I pressed the button.

Instantly, the ear-splitting explosion sounded and echoed through the cavern, the tremendous booming reverberation bounced off every wall in the cavern and seemed to magnify the sound immensely. A split second later came the wave of extreme heat that must have been caused by more than the power of 1kg of TNT - of what 50 meters is the safe distance for - as the heat threw me off balance. I stumbled forward, dropping the remote, from the sheer force of the blaze and spun around quickly to ensure the fire hadn’t reached me. I brought my hand up to shield my face as my eyes widened and mouth fell ajar. Roaring hot, bright, yellow flames engulfed the train, licked round the floor and under the carriages, and spiralled up to the ceiling of the cavern, illuminating the whole of the vast cave for a good 5 seconds. Smoke bellowed up from the flames, which just appeared as huge, jet black clouds which attempted to restore the cavern to its former darkness. The explosions were not in unison but with short, malevolent intervals between each one, first starting with the annihilation of the front carriage, the back and then finally the middle carriage of where the young boy and his mother were. One, two, three. All over in 4 seconds.

All the while, the screeching of the train on the rails accompanied the ricocheting of the explosion to make a terrifying clamour that ran straight through me, shaking every bone in my body. Suddenly, just as the last carriage was ignited, the severe screaming of the rails overruled any other sound. Unexpectedly, the end car was derailed and thrown to the side from the impact of the blast and started skidding towards me at brutal speed. My mouth dropped and eyes widened further, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I froze and watched as it slid across the floor, I listened to the screeching and crunching of the metal against the gravel and I felt my heart leap into my throat. I sprinted right, hurled myself out of the way and dived to the side just as the flaming car skidded past me. I roll once, twice then onto my back and, on all fours, frantically scramble away from the car which came to a permanent stop as it hit the wall of the cavern. The whole place trembles with the collision. My head darts from the derailed car to the ceiling to the train to the derailed car again. I felt the adrenaline surge through my veins, causing my heart to beat faster and faster like a drum in my chest. Breathing becomes a struggle. My chest heaved in and out at worrying speed.

Finally, I took my eyes off the derailed car and stared back at the total devastation to my right. The train, or what’s left of it, was still completely swallowed up by flames. The screeching of the rails silences out and is replaced by crackling and hissing of flames.

Left breathless on the floor, I start to think of the lives that have ended in the last 30 seconds. In all the crimes I’ve solved, of all the murder cases I’ve been involved in, I had never seen anything so horrifying, never experienced anything on such an extensive scale like this. It was practically genocide. And _I_ had caused this mass destruction. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, _murderer_. I barely feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, I don’t answer it. I was in a complete state of shock. Minutes later, I feel my phone vibrate again, so when the flames dull to a tolerable heat, I shake myself out of the fearful astonishment and stand, with difficulty.

Once I steadied myself, I pulled my phone from my pocket and as I select the first message, I try to focus on the task at hand – saving John.

_8:31am  
371 dead. 57 of those were children. I didn’t think you had it in you, Sherlock. I don’t even think **I’ve** killed that many people in total. – S_

I ignore the comment and advance onto the next message hoping, praying, for letters of John’s whereabouts. I was satisfied.

_8:33am  
_ _If you get out of there quick enough, you might be able to get to John before he reaches his inevitable death. Here are the last of the letters:_ _\- - r - l -    - - - d   - - s p – - - l_ _. Be quick about it. – S_

I piece together the remaining letters in the deadly hangman game.

Harold Wood Hospital.

I instantly ignore everything around me and slip into a state of total focus. I slip my phone into my pocket and search my mind palace for general information, closing my eyes as I did so. It takes seconds to gather all useful information. I remember the place well, I had read an article about it in the newspaper and I stored it away, thought the information might come in handy one day. Harold Wood Hospital. Gubbins lane. Romford. Built in 1884 and was opened in 1909 as the Grange convalescent home for children. It became a permanent hospital after the war. Shut down in 2006 with patients being transferred to Queen’s and King George’s Hospital. The area and building has remained derelict but in progress for demolition to make way for new luxury apartments, which are still yet to be drawn up and confirmed. Despite the fact of the building being abandoned, many of the functions are still up and running - so trespassers say.

Instant questions start cropping up in my mind: why there? What are they doing with John? Where are they keeping him in the hospital? But first things first, I needed to get out and as quickly as possible.

Using the light of the flames to my advantage, I looked around for an exit or a way out or a... staircase! I rushed over to the 3 flights of stairs, constructed by metal chequer plate panels with a metal handrail, which shone in the light of the blaze, outlining the platforms and steps. Clearly this was made for emergencies then. I scaled the stairs quickly, taking two steps with every stride I took. As I reached the top of the stairs, I was greeted by a 6ft 6inch archway in the wall of the cavern which lead to a small, semi circular space – with the flat of the semi circle walls straight ahead. The room was barely lit by the three small beams of sunlight from the ceiling which penetrated through the darkness. I looked up and noticed the holes matched the shape of a man hole covering. In front of me, a corroding iron ladder was fixed solidly to the wall.

I climbed the ladder swiftly and pushed the man hole covering up and out of the way before I leapt from the darkness and out into a large, square area of concrete which seemed to be behind the backs of three tall buildings, probably cafes or restaurants going by the overflowing industrial bins. The exit out onto the bustling main street was blocked by a 5ft wire fence, which looked easy enough to knock down with a good kick but I decided to leap over it. I cleared the fence with ease and rushed out into the crowd of the street to reassess my bearings.

Holborn. 37 minutes from my destination. For once, there weren’t streams of taxi’s driving on the road. A passer-by hailed the one taxi and, just as he opened the door, I yelled ‘Police!’ and jumped into the cab, ordering the cabby to drive on. I couldn’t waste the first taxi available. John had told me this trick had worked for him once, so I thought I’d put it into practise.

“Where to, mate?” He asked gruffly. I answered. I was silent throughout the whole journey; the only thing on my mind was John. We were there within 34 minutes, making good time considering the traffic. The cabby driver pulled up to the wire fence that surrounded the perimeter and peered up into the wind mirror to look at me.

“Sorry mate, but this is as far as I can take you, since well it’s out-a-bounds and all.” The cabby spoke, drumming on the wheel of the car lightly. I swiftly opened the door and glided out without a word. Remembering to pay, I turn around on my heels, pull out a £50 note from my wallet and offer it to the driver as I draw myself up to full height, shoving my other hand with my wallet deep into my coat pocket.

“I’ll let you keep the change if you turn your car around, drive back and breathe no word to where you have taken me, regardless of any events that may occur this afternoon.” I say sternly, looking at the shamble of the hospital lying around 40 metres behind the fence. I could only assume that there would be a man hunt for me in the next couple of hours. I take a quick glimpse at the cabby’s shocked expression in his wing mirror as he takes the fifty quickly and stuffs it in his shirt pocket.

“Whatever you say, mate! You weren’t even in my cab.” He exclaims with a good hearted laugh, before he U-turns and drives away speedily.

As soon as the taxi man was out of sight, I climbed up and over the wire fence and walked swiftly up to the main door of the hospital building, which happened to be hanging off its hinges. I took a brief look at the outside condition of the building; shoddy brickwork, one part of the hospital completely collapsed, CCTV cameras have been ripped from their places leaving wires completely exposed, graffiti on most walls, grass that surrounded the hospital had grown completely wild,... totally derelict. Sprouts and clumps of moss lay here and there, growing in crevices between the bricks.

Sliding between the gap of the doorway, I entered into a large patient waiting room with plenty of space for seating and 2 reception desks on parallel sides of the walls. The waiting chairs and benches had been bent, burnt, torn apart or, even more surprisingly so, actually ripped from the floor and tossed to the side. The flooring was a white tile which was hard to make out since the debris of smashed bottles, general litter, paint peelings, torn wallpaper and panels of the ceiling – many of which smashed into segments from the fall – lay scattered everywhere to make a thick blanket of mess. I treaded cautiously into the middle of the room, the crunching of the glass beneath my feet being the only sound, and darted my eyes around in search for possible clues of where John was being held. The light from the windows – which were in surprisingly good condition – faded away as the clouds started to swallow the sky.

Suddenly, I spot a clean area of the floor, which sat at the entrance to a hallway, surrounded by a rim of rubbish. I deduced that, clearly, someone had just swept that waste out of the away. I walk over and realise that a white arrow had been spray painted on the greying tiles, pointing to the direction down the long corridor. I advance immediately down the path told and follow the passageway round, guided with 2 more arrows, until I come to a wall with a turn at either left or right – but with no arrow to direct me. I look around for a clue, anything at all to give me an indication of where to head next.  At first, seemingly there was nothing but a dark purple hospital sign, hanging on the wall by just one of the bolt nails, caught my attention. There was also white paint on it, circling one word. I rushed over, observed it and held the sign up to its correct position.

The word circled was ‘Morgue’

My heart drops. Why would they be keeping John in the morgue? No... No he can’t be... I discarded thoughts from my head; unable to accept anything other than he’s alive and well. I glided swiftly down the corridor, following it round until I found an archway with another purple sign, coated in dust, with the single word ‘Morgue’ written on it. I stop dead and turn my body at an angle as I analysed the heavy looking steel door. I cautiously check my surroundings and keep my eyes and ears on high alert for any sudden movement. No sign of any possible threat. Advance onwards.

I reach the heavy metal door and unlatch it quietly. As it unseals and gasps for air, I lean my weight on the door and push it open, just enough so that I slip through into the morgue. As I take in my surroundings, the door slowly closes behind me and seems to seal shut. From the sounds, I gather that it will take great difficulty opening the door from where I’m standing. The morgue was a large rectangular room covered completely in white tiles which had discoloured to a dismal grey over time. The first thing that struck me was the surprising lack of wreckage in the room. As I slowly advanced away from the door, there was no crunching of glass beneath my feet but replaced with the tapping and echoing of my footsteps. A few ceiling tiles here and there fell to the floor, exposing multiple giant pipes and dozens of wires that vertically hung lifelessly. Over the echoes of my soft footsteps, I noticed a constant sound. A quiet and faint humming coming from the ceiling, which I presumed was from the pipes. So the trespassers were right, some facilities _were_ up and running then. The three rimmed shining steel tables, for where the bodies were placed for analysis, stood in the middle of the room evenly spaced out. I noticed around the plug hole of one of the tables, for where bodily fluids would pour down and through the pipe and into the floor, lay a thin, translucent red residue, dry and crusted. I wiped my finger around the plughole, across the deposit and sniffed it. Blood.

I looked up from the tables and scanned my eyes around the walls of the room, noticing another similar heavy looking door – with a large ‘X’ spray painted onto it. I cautiously creep towards the door, unlatch it and have even more trouble opening it, judging it to be twice if not three times heavier as the last door. I notice again how the door gasps for air as the seal around it breaks. I push the door open a small amount and then wedge myself between the door frame and the metal door and use my whole weight to gain enough space to safely slip through. The door falls fast and hard and seals tight.

This room was again surprisingly clean but was much smaller and thinner in size. It was a long room, almost as thin as a corridor – the plan was around 8 ½ foot by 15ft - and had extremely low ceilings; the walls must have only been about 7ft tall. I noticed that there were no windows on the walls yet a 2 by 4 grid of skylights in the ceiling which gave most of the light in this room. As far as I could see, each one was shut tight. The entrance to this dismal room opened on one of the longer sides of the room. One of the smaller sides had shelves of dusty equipment, cobwebs and fragments of apparatus that was left behind after the hospital was abandoned lining the wall. On the opposite side of the room sat a corrugating iron tank of water, which had 4 pipes poking out and stretching up to the ceiling. In parallel to the door was a 7ft tall wall of one person cold chambers, 3 high by 4 across making a total of 12 cold chambers. I looked around for another door or other signs to continue, but this was it. This was the end.

I instantly expected the worst. If the humming of the pipes meant that the facilities where working in this part of the hospital, that meant that water would be running and possibly the cold chambers would be working too. I deduced that since this wasn’t a forensic institute, the cold chambers would have a positive temperature, reaching lows of 2c to 4c. Limited movement, bitter cold temperatures, minimal clothing, it could kill a man in hours. My heart started racing. Suddenly, I got a text.

_9:15am  
Revenge is a dish best served cold wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock? - S_

My view flicked up to the cold chambers.

“John?!” I shouted, eyes darting from one cold chamber to the next. I frantically ran up to the silver wall and banged my fists desperately on the first three doors in front of me. “JOHN?!”

Instantly, there was a muffled sound of someone shouting, coming from the other end of the room. Then there was banging. Hope gripped my heart. I ran to where the frantic shouting and chaotic banging was coming from. I placed my hands either side of the cold chamber door, shouting his name through the door.

Then, unexpectedly, I heard the echoing sound of frenzied fists against the metal from the other end of the cold chambers. I retreated from my former position, taking a few slow steps backwards and not taking my eyes off the other noisy cold chamber. Either end of the cold chambers came the banging. Then the middle. All at different heights. 3 cold chambers. 3 choices. 3 people.

My heart sank and face hardened as I realised what was going on. Another text.

_9:16am  
Careful, Sherlock. The wrong ones are rigged to blow. Choose wisely and bear in mind that your life, as well as your precious John, is now in danger. But hurry, times running out. He’s already been in there overnight. This is the final game we’re going to play._

I gritted my teeth in anger. It was a game of chance!! That’s all it is! Luck! There was no tactic, no logic to it! I wanted to text back and refuse to play. It’s just chance. I hate these choices, I hate these games. I resented the fact that there was no way to assure the one I was picking was John. If I picked the wrong one, that was it. John, two other people and I would die. For a brief couple of seconds, I silently stood there seething with rage.

Suddenly, pipes from the water tank and ceiling started shaking violently and clanking furiously against the tank. I jumped at the sound. Unexpectedly, one of the pipes broke free, which then triggered the other three pipes to burst. Water flooded out at an alarming rate and onto the tiles, consuming anything in its path. I hurriedly made for the door as the water poured from the tank and pipes like a tsunami. The door wouldn’t budge. I was stuck. The water was at my ankles. I turned round and stared panic-stricken at each of the three cold chambers, in which one John was being held. The water was flooding around my feet; soon it would be at my calves. I had to choose. And fast.


	22. Chapter 22

_Sherlock_

The pounding did not cease. Soon, the loud, echoing drumming of fists on metal caught pace with my racing heartbeat and the two became the perfect chorus of adrenaline. My head moved with my eyes, switching from the middle cold chamber on the far right hand side, to the highest cold chamber in the middle from the left and to the bottom levelled cold chamber on the left hand side. John was in one of them. The other two I didn’t care about. But I couldn’t choose. I didn’t know.

The water had now reached knee height and was steadily approaching my thighs.

My nostrils were flaring. My eyes were wide. My hands were twitching. I could have easily compared myself to a wild animal at that moment. I had no strategy to depend on, no facts and no knowledge. Just instinct. Just feeling. My brain had become almost inactive. I couldn’t think of any reason for ‘S’ to have put John in any of the cold chambers. Why in the bottom? Why in the top? Why _not_ the bottom? Why _not_ the top? I was wasting precious time yet I couldn’t bring myself to choose an option. It was just a game of chance.

Over knee height. The water had now completely swallowed the lowest level of the cold chambers, including one that produced sound not 10 minutes ago.

Maybe John was in that cold chamber.

It was then I noticed that the banging had stopped. There was just the gushing of the water and the silence.

I felt another vibration. I fished my phone out of my pocket, which was soon to be underwater itself.

_9:25am  
Make a choice, Sherlock. Times running out. - S_

In my anger and frustration, I called out John’s name once and more contorting my face in anguish as I did so. And surprisingly, it was either a hallucination or the water altering my hearing; I heard my name faintly cried back in response.

John.

I felt the warm puncture of hope once more in my heart as I made my way towards the highest of the 3 cold chambers in the middle row. The water had now completely consumed my lower half, making it tremendously difficult to move. I tapped rapidly 3 times and left a gap and then repeated the rhythm. I didn’t know much Morse code but because if John was in there he would most definitely answer with it. My knock was responded with a 3 fast raps, another 3 but slower and then the same 3 fast knocks again. S.O.S. Morse code. John.

The water was reaching my waist. It was only here that I started to notice how intensely cold the water was.

I gripped hold of the handle and used the whole of my weight to pull down and swing the door open; having no second thoughts about the consequences. I was convinced it was John. And I was right. No explosion. I didn’t give myself a second to congratulate my choice; I was just focused on getting John out. I gripped tight onto the handle of the end of the stretcher and wheeled it out as far as I could; edging my way around the bed to the side as I waded my way around in the water.

He came out face first with his head turned towards me. His eyes were closed.

“John!” I cried as I threw my hands onto his shoulders, stretching my arm far over his body to grab his opposite shoulder, and shook him violently. His face was white as a sheet with the rest of his skin appearing placid and smooth, almost like the bodies at the morgue. He seemed limp, lifeless and unresponsive.

“John!” I shouted again, over and over almost screaming his name with my face centimetres from his. “John? JOHN? JOHN! You _have_ to wake up, John!” I kept shaking, violently, urgently, desperately. “Please, John, just wake up! PLEASE! JOHN!”

I moved my way round to the front of the cold chamber, behind his head, and slipped my hands underneath his armpits and – with much difficulty - dragged him backwards off the stretcher. I had the inner of my elbows secure underneath John’s arms and my hands firmly clasped onto his shoulders as I gently lowered him into the, now waist high, waters. It was then I noticed slight movement, only minor but it _was_ movement. There was something. John was still alive. I waded through the water and moved us to the cold chamber wall as I turned him around and faced him towards me and pushed him against the metal with my body weight.

Water continued to pour. My teeth began to chatter. I shook John’s shoulders still. I took my index finger and thumb to one of John’s eyes and opened it quickly. Just as I thought. His pupils were large, dark voids. I closed his eye quickly as I stared at him frantically. I stood holding onto John’s shoulders just waiting for a response, not even taking into account the mass volume of water that was engulfing us, patiently waiting to drown us. I needed something from John, anything.

Then, almost miraculously, his eyelids began to flicker and a quiet, soft, stuttering moan struggled from his lips.

“Sh-Sherlock...”

I shook my head in disbelief and laughed momentarily as John opened his eyelids to just allow himself to see me. I removed one hand from his shoulders and briefly placed it on the side of his face, cupping his cheek.

“Oh Je-esus, Sherlock, I-I-I’m, s-so, co-old.” John stuttered, closing his eyes again temporarily.

I sighed and nodded once as I removed my coat and, keeping firm hold onto it to assure the water wouldn’t take it away, I slipped John into it. I then removed my scarf and wrapped it warmly around John’s neck, ensuring not to tie it too tight. I couldn’t think of anything else better to do.

“It’s all right, John. I’ll get us out of this.”

John folded his arms across his chest as he stood lifeless but with chattering teeth and his arms occasionally jutting out to his sides as he desperately tried to stabilise himself against the swirling of the water in the room.

I looked to the door. That’s no hope, I had already checked. I looked into the hole of the cold chamber. No way could that fit two people, and if we did fit how long would we last anyway? Taking a breath of air, I dived underwater, opening my eyes to see if there were any tiles so loose that we could make a hole big enough to drain the water away and give us more time. Nothing. I came back up for air and looked around frantically.

The chilling water was now up to John’s neck and up to my chest. I could feel thousands of tiny frosty knives stabbing into my body as the cold water took its toll.

Hopeless, I stared at John. If these were our last moments together I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else but being with him entirely. But John wasn’t looking at me. He was looking up.

I looked up in curiosity, towards the skylight.

One panel was open slightly.

Open enough that if we reached it we could effectively push it open and escape.

And there was only one way we were going to get up there.

My vision returned back to John’s eyes. I nodded. He understood. I grasped onto the collar of my coat and tugged John’s lifeless body through the water to directly underneath the open skylight. We still had just over 2 ½ feet to go before we could reach the sky light. As we stared into each other’s eyes, gripping onto one another tightly, we both knew John would be underwater before I would. I could still breathe even when the water has fully consumed him. But I couldn’t do that to John. I couldn’t just leave him underwater while I was still breathing. My eyes were wide with concern, with panic, with fear. It felt like seconds before the water had swallowed up to my chin and John’s nose, leaving him craning his neck up higher to breathe. I couldn’t stand to see him this way. He was barely holding onto life as it is. I shuffled around in the water, swatting away the bottom of my coat as it floated like ghost, and took a gasp for air. I then, having the level up past my nose but not yet reaching my eyes, wedged my shoulder underneath John’s armpit again and hoisted him up. With the help of the water John felt almost light but when I raised his body above the water I felt the strain. I could feel John’s arm wrap around my neck and his hand clasp tight onto my opposite shoulder. I wrapped my arm of the shoulder he was balancing on up round to his other armpit and held it there whilst me opposite hand rested on his stomach to steady him. He was now well above my height. It took him a minute to piece together what I was doing but when he worked it out his eyes darted to mine with the first time I’d seen panic in his expression for a long time.

I shook my head with a sure look on my face. I was not letting him down. Not now. He would have longer to breathe, longer to live. I noted that his head was almost touching the skylight. _This_ is how we’d escape.

The water reached my lips. As I closed my mouth and concentrated on breathing through my nose our gaze never broke. John’s eyes were wider now though not as large as they should be but every second our lives were in the balance, he was looking more alive.

The thousands of knives now became millions and I could feel my body waning under John’s weight.

The water engulfed my nose and I craned my neck up so that I had some effort to breathe. John was shaking his head faster and faster with the progression of the water. The height rose. Giving John a reassuring smile, I took my final breath and dipped my head under the water. We hadn’t long left till we reached the top. I only hoped that our plan would work. I only hoped that John would last long enough. I could feel John squirm as I went under and I could hear my name being called. I retaliated, gripping onto his arm and stomach hard as to stop him from moving, any air I lost now would certainly either mean life or death in the minutes to come. He then remained still.

My ears felt like satellites as all I could hear was the amplified noise of the roaring waves from the pipes in the water, creating air and a foam-like substance underneath as it poured out. I had my tight hold onto John and I knew that when he submerges, that will be the time to go.

I looked up at the level of water above me. It was now just reaching John’s mouth as I could see him straining his neck up. It seemed to be rising faster and faster but I felt I was under for a lifetime.

My heart thudded harder in my chest and my ears felt soft as the ringing stopped. The water fell silent and everything felt still. I watched John become submerged under the water as everything started to blur I could feel nothing. John’s weight disappeared. I could feel myself slipping away. And John could too. I could just make out John’s puffed out cheeks, when his face appeared centimetres from my own. He grabbed my arm and shook me slightly, not enough to beat any air out of my system but just enough to wake me up from my dream-like state. The task became clear once more and I swum upwards fast and strong. My head shot up out of the water and I grabbed onto the side of the skylight, feeling the rough gravel of the flat rooftop under the furthest edges of my fingertips. I submerged my face underwater and outstretched my other hand to John, who floated up and grasped my hand tight. Bringing my head up for air, I pulled John up and slipped myself fully under, transferring our places. There was only room for one man. I pushed John completely up so that his torso was above the water and on the surface of the roof. He left his bottom half hanging limp in the water as I expected so I swam quickly to the skylight just next to it and kicked the glass hard.  First attempt it didn’t smash, but just as John was wriggling his legs about under the heavy coat of mine, I tried my second attempt. The glass shattered out into a million pieces and I burst out onto the surface.

I hauled myself out and completely onto the roof as I gasped for air, looking like a fish out of water. Flopping myself onto my back, I let my head fall backwards onto the gravel and breathed deeply for several seconds before turning myself on my belly and crawling towards John. I grabbed his hands immediately and, staggering to my feet, exerted all of my lasting strength into getting him out of the chilling water and into the warmth of the dim sunlight that shone through the grey clouds. I laid him flat on his back and wrapped the coat tightly around him, before myself collapsing beside his body. I could hear the rustling of trees, the distant beeping of cars and most important of all, I could hear John breathing heavily. I outstretched my arms and my hand landed on top of John’s. It was freezing. I grasped it tight for fear of losing him again.

I gave John one final look and laid my head back and closed my eyes. I had him back. I would never let him go again.

Suddenly, I heard a click of a gun.

“Well.” A familiar voice addressed. I immediately raised my head and scrambled backwards. “Ain’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”

The barrel of a Glock 17 was pointed straight for my head. I looked at the face of its holder.

It was Sebastian. 


	23. Chapter 23

_Sherlock_

With no hesitation, I immediately pulled my gun out from the elastic in the back of my trousers and pointed it at Sebastian, leaning on my elbow and securing the gun with both hands despite my trembling. A threatening sliver of a smile spread across Moran’s lips as he glared down with his hollowed out eye sockets larger and darker than his massive menacing shadow that casted down upon me. His aim barely quivered from the target on my forehead.

“Woah now, mate. Let’s not try anything rash now, shall we?” Sebastian’s husky voice spoke with a hint of mockery in his tone.

Moran’s slim bony fingers, which were covered in tight, black, leather gloves, clenched tight around the butt of the gun as he rolled his head to the side like a puppy would in confusion. He gestured the gun for me to stand.

“On your feet.” He barked suddenly.

I slowly rose from the floor, still pointing my gun at Moran’s chest. I noticed that now Moran looked a lot different from his formal attire that evening in the club on Mike’s engagement party. Here, he was wearing straight shaped dark blue jeans, which looked old and worn, with a short-sleeved, tight fitting, grey V neck t-shirt which highlighted the muscles in his arms. His torso was still as lean and slim as I remember it and his arms and legs were almost impossibly long, though still in proportion with his body. His broad chin, hawk like nose and strong jaw line were now emphasized in the light of the day and I noticed a layer of stubble had begun to form making his appearance look even more rugged than I remember.

“Aren’t you surprised?” Moran asked cockily with a chuckle, throwing his arms out carelessly as if to show off.

“Not in the slightest.” I replied quickly. I had the feeling I interrupted something. Sebastian scowled sardonically.

“Nah of course not, I should have known you would have figured me out.” Moran replied as he turned and slowly took a few steps to circle me and John’s helpless body. I stood next to John and turned to face Moran with each step he took, as to stay dead on target. Suddenly, Moran stopped and turned his body towards me with a slide of his feet and looked up at the sky.

“But, can I ask, what gave me away?” He asked comically, waving his gun around carelessly. This man used far much more expression in his face and gestures than the controlled and calm man at the nightclub just weeks ago. His soulless grey eyes then found their way back to my stare and I saw why. Madness. His eyes were consumed by insanity which were surrounded by black rings and thin creases under his bottom lid from lack of sleep, though his eyes still acquired the same chilling, dead impression which was probably highlighted even more so by the ghostly shade of grey in his irises.

I noticed that the sun had completely disappeared; hidden behind large light grey clouds that consumed the sky. However, I could feel the chill of the water no longer; all I could feel was the heat of the adrenaline surging through my veins.

“‘S’ sort of gave me some clue and you look too much like a criminal; far too experienced.”

Unintentionally, Moran then held his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest and lifting his chin slightly. No... There was something else.

“But you weren’t always a criminal, were you?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. It was now my turn. I lowered the gun and circled him like a predator would his prey. I could see Moran clench his jaw tight in frustration.

“By your stance and the way you hold yourself, I’d say you were an ex-army soldier. A good tan on your face says abroad. Physical appearance says you participated in a regime of intensive training. Military hair-cut still, but you don’t look fresh out. It’s been a good time since you were in the army. Give or take 10 years at best. What happened? Got shot?”

I stepped a few paces back from Sebastian, standing directly in front of him.

“Me? Shot?” Moran sniggered. “I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.”

“One of Moriarty’s hit men I gather.”

“And before that, Colonel of the 4th regiment in the British Army.”

I raised my eyebrows slightly. Colonel. Impressive.

“So what happened? 24 years of service take its toll?” I retaliated.

Sebastian’s upper lip quivered as he scowled at me before his face relaxed into a smirk.

“Only took me 18 years to get there. I should have been a Lieutenant Colonel but I was good. A little _too_ good.” He answered gradually.

His hawk like gaze fixated upon me in an almost eerie sort of manner. I raised my gun up to resume pointing at his chest. I had never felt this threatened before now.

“But _you_ can tell that that wasn’t the only reason I left.” He added with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“You didn’t leave, you were forced to resign.” I retorted.

Moran chuckled again, removing his hands from behind his back. He started to fiddle with his gun in his hands.

“Good, good.” He nodded. Moran then rolled his head round to briefly look at me again. He took a few steps forward as I took one back.

“They said it was murder.” He whispered, leaning forward knowing I wouldn’t let him come any closer. “Funny that. In a war.” Sebastian gripped his gun tight within his hands and then continued pacing around, whilst I absentmindedly followed him in his circle. “They didn’t take me to court though, I’ve always wondered why.” He added with heavy sarcasm. “So they forced me to resign... because I apparently _slaughtered_ a village of innocent people. But they weren’t innocent. I knew they weren’t. I had an insider, but I’m not one for grassing up allies.”

“How very loyal of you.” I replied slowly and quietly. Sebastian dipped his chin into his chest as he smiled grimly, his smirk appearing more like a grimace.

We remained circling round in silence for what seemed like a fair amount of time, but could have only been a couple of seconds. Sebastian stared at the floor, watching his extensive stride with each step with his hands behind his back, and I mirroring his steps, each time ensuring I was directly beside him with my gun pointed and body facing towards Moran.

The sky had turned a constant shade of dark grey. Rain was coming.

Finally, Sebastian lifted his head to face in front of him as he stopped. He stared ahead as he slipped his gun into the pocket of his trousers.

“I take it you have questions.” He asked, before resuming our circling.

“Why did you kill Mike?”

This would be the root question to all the others I had to ask.

“Oh! Good one! Straight in there aren’t we?” Moran chuckled, abruptly stopping once more. I repeated the question forcefully. Sebastian continued pacing.

“I needed to get your attention.”

“What? With killing a perfectly innocent man?”

“You’re hardly one to talk, Sherlock. You just slaughtered a tube train full of _innocent_ people.” Moran replied mockingly.

I cocked the gun in anger.

Sebastian spun round to face me and glared at me as if I had insulted him.

“Shoot me now and you won’t know the answers to all your petty little questions!” He shouted.

We stared at each other in silence.

“I needed, to get, your attention.” Sebastian said calmly through gritted teeth, resuming his walk with my follow. “I thought a few deaths of some homeless scum were hardly going to go noticed, unless those who died were of your little band of marching homeless geezers.”

“The diamonds?” I questioned.

“Oh, that was just to get it in the papers. I knew how you liked publicity.” He answered with a chuckle.

It wasn’t adding up.

“But why Mike?”

Sebastian stopped again and took a several slow steps towards me. I shuffled on my feet and rolled my shoulders as I asserted my position. I looked down towards John who was now to the left of me. I was only a few steps from him.

“He was the one that brought you two together, wasn’t he? But of course, you knew that already. That was John’s way of persuading you to go to his engagement do, wasn’t it?”

“How did you know...” I asked before being cut off.

“Oh come on, Sherlock. I’ve been watching you two for months now.” Sebastian answered, tipping his head to the side in a patronising way. 

My eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t just a hit man for Jim, I was more than that. I was _the_ hit man. Everyone else was just toddlers with sling shots compared to me. I have the skills to do things that you wouldn’t believe and eaves-dropping on a conversation in your flat was hardly the hardest thing I’ve had to do.” Sebastian hissed. “He brought you two together. So I thought it would be best for me to waste _him_ and all his significance.” Sebastian took a few steps backwards with his hands behind his back and turned to the side, gazing into the distance.

“Why?” I replied quickly.

Sebastian turned his head slowly to look at me, his eyes wide and wild.

“Why do you want to rip us apart?” I asked cautiously.

“Because it’s not FAIR!” Sebastian shouted in an outburst of rage, spinning round towards me and throwing his arms up in my face. I positioned myself ready to shoot. “You killed Jim!”

“He killed himself!” I responded.

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t you give me that shit!” Moran shouted, marching towards me. I took a step back again and cocked the gun. “I watched him wither away, I watched him _crumble_ when he found you and he knew he couldn’t have you. He wanted you to be in his web so bad. But no, he knew you were on the good side. So he decided to play with you. He hated you. He became obsessed with you. And you drove him to his death. You _made_ Jim kill himself.”

Sebastian clenched his fists by his side.

“I want... revenge. For Jim.” Sebastian spoke, elongating the pauses between his words. “He was my boss. I want to finish his last task.”

I lifted my chin up slightly in thought. One thing sprang to mind. If Sebastian wanted revenge, surely the best thing he could do was to kill me. After all, it was Moriarty’s one plan to toy around with me and then destroy me completely. So in this context, why hadn’t he done so already? That was Moriarty’s task in the end, to kill me. I concluded that there was something stopping Moran; the amount of self restraint I could see Moran inflicting upon himself, the slipping the gun into his pocket and out of his hands, he was stopping himself from killing me. But why?

I decided to challenge my theory. I needed to find out more. I could see the burning hatred boiling behind Moran’s eyes. This wasn’t just avenging Moriarty’s death... no... It was something a lot more personal than that. The way he would keep calling Moriarty by his first name, his outburst when we talked about John and I... I recognised it. There was...

“Sentiment.” I whispered. Sebastian widened his eyes even further so that the discs of grey in his eyes were fully visible.

“That’s not the only reason though, is it? Just finishing Moriarty’s task, completing the job... There’s something else.” I lowered my gun to my side and slipped it into the back of my trousers. Sebastian sighed and eye lids fell shut. He wasn’t going to kill me.

“Moriarty didn’t just give you a job, did he?” I asked, taking a few steps forward as to analyse him further. “He gave you a life.”

I looked Sebastian up and down before continuing, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“Accent says a poorer part of London, maybe East or North-East, most likely Hackney. Introduced into the crime industry by Moriarty but I wouldn’t say that was your first taste of crime. Your t-shirt is recently new but not too new, I’d say you have worn that for the last 4 months. So you don’t buy clothes often despite Moriarty’s fortune. Your jeans, they look extremely worn but not tatty, shows you take care of them, I see a few stitches where you have torn the knees, this means you know how to look after yourself, of course being a fully grown man and ex-member of the army, you should know how to stitch up a pair of jeans but those trousers are at least 15 years old. I’d even push it so far as 20. I presume you joined the army when you were 18, you then said it only took you 18 years before you were forced to leave which means you’ve had those trousers ever since you were 16 years old at the youngest. Surprising really since a man doesn’t stop growing until his early 20s. They are slightly too short at the ankle but I presume, comfortable enough. But why on earth would anyone keep an item for so long and not get rid of it even when it may start to fall apart and you can afford to replace it? Now I’d take a wild stab in the dark at emotional attachment. Your parent gave you those jeans. Mother.”

I saw Sebastian’s eyes flash open to look at me. I was right. There _were_ family problems here.

“Something happened to your mother after she gave you those jeans, am I right?” I asked.

Moran’s jaw clenched as his eyelids dropped to normality. The wild glint in his eye immediately faded to leave his eyes dead and soulless once more.

“I was 17 when my father found out she was sleeping around with some blokes in the estate. He went mental. He murdered her. And I watched. My father’s reputation was tarnished so he made me the ring leader of the lot.”

“Gangs?”

“More than that, they were animals.” Sebastian replied, relaxing his shoulders.

“So then you joined the army after figuring the thug life wasn’t your forte and as you resigned you came back to nothing. The yellowing of your fingernails and the stench of your breath, I could smell that a mile off, you smoked.”

“Since I was 12, genius.”

“Not just tobacco though.”

“5 years clean and you can still tell.” Sebastian scorned.

“You fell into a life of crippling depression, a victim to drugs and you had no one to fall back on. And then Moriarty came along and offered you a life line. And you took it.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at me. I could feel the rain begin to lightly shower down onto us.

“So you felt forever in his debt. He saved your life.”

I could see Sebastian grinding his teeth. Suddenly, I could see something change in Moran.

“I was there every step of the way with you and Jim’s little game. Remember the swimming pool, where Carl Powers died?”

The tables had turned once more. I waited upon his response, fists clenched in my pockets.

“I was the first rifle about to blow your precious little Johnny boy up.” He hissed, hands resuming to behind his back again. Moran took one step backwards.

An instant wave of fury surged over my body. My mouth parted slightly as I felt my face contort into an expression of anger.

“I was the one that was filling the police in with the crimes at Scotland Yard. Don’t know if Lestrade will find you too useful now with my little insider on the case. You’d be surprised how corrupt things are now-a-days.”

Moran took another step backwards.

“And...” he added, his voice almost a whisper. “I was the one that strapped the bomb to John. Don’t worry, he didn’t struggle though. He was out cold.”

Another step backwards.

My heart rate was increasing.

“And of course, I’ve done all _this_ to you.” He said as he raised his arms up. “This was all my handy-work. Jim taught me a trick or two about torture you see, it’s not all physical. The best kind is mental. You want to find their weak point and torture them with that. With some people it’s money; some people an item and others...” He gestured his head towards John. “A loved one.”

“What do you want with me?” I asked cautiously, turning my head at an angle but with my focus still on Moran. “Why did you have to bring John into this? Just kill me already, that’s what you want isn’t it? To kill me, avenge Moriarty’s death...”

I was interrupted by a deep, menacing snigger which emerged from Moran’s lips once more. He started pacing along the roofs edge.

“Oh no, just killing you won’t do...” He spoke, shaking his head slowly. His tone was slow, snake-like and cold. “I want to _torture_ you. Jim told me to rip you apart inch by inch but me; oh, I do things a bit more intimately than he does. I don’t want to rip you apart inch by inch. I want to rip you apart fibre by fibre.”

Moran inhaled deeply through his nose and out through his mouth.

“See, I’m not one for games, me. I was never one for games. I hate them. I prefer to finish things off quickly, effectively, with no room for error. But, I thought this would be more... enjoyable. Since Jim used to do it all of the time. And by hell it was. Sweet revenge should be dragged out like the physical torture I specialise in.”

He stopped in his former position and faced towards me, his eyes meeting mine once more.

“Jim told me one thing once. And I intend to do it. Take your heart and turn it to ashes. Find your weak point. And boy, have I found it.”

Sebastian tipped his head towards John before resuming our gaze. I looked down at John briefly with my brow knitted in confusion.

“It’s him isn’t it?” He jeered.

I pulled back my shoulders and drew myself to full height. With the same look of confusion on my face I continued to lie to Moran, and myself, about what he meant.

“Please.” Sebastian scorned, slouching and rolling his head for comical effect whilst taking a few steps forward. “You’re soft for him.” he announced as he stopped. He stared at me and let it sink it.

“More than that though, isn’t it?” Sebastian took another step towards me so that he was just an arm’s length away. He leaned his face in further.

“He’s, your, heart.” Sebastian hissed through gritted teeth. “Isn’t he?”

The trickling shower of the rain escalated into a downpour.

“Isn’t he?!” He shouted. To appear as if I flinched, I drew my hands out of my pockets and held them by my sides, ready to pull my gun out if needs be. Moran pulled away slowly and resumed to his place on the edge of the roof, executing his steps backwards and not disrupting his malicious, vindictive gaze from me.

I stood there staring at Sebastian and mulling over our conversation and especially what he had just said. And he was right. John was my heart. And Sebastian wanted to rip it out and turn it to ashes.

It then clicked. My eyes scoured the floor of my thoughts as I realised what was about to happen.

“I owe him this.” Sebastian said. He then whipped his gun out of his pocket and directed it at John.

“NO!” I shouted as I rapidly slid my gun out from behind me and aimed for Sebastian.

Two gun shots sounded. One just before the other. The sound echoed around us.

I saw Sebastian fall from the roof as from the impact of my bullet.

I felt the pound of John’s body against the roofs concrete surface and he absorbed the bullet.

Sprinting to the edge of the roof, I looked over and saw Sebastian’s body lying cold and crippled in the tangle of overgrowth and surrounding him, a pool of red blood. He was dead.

I turned to John and ran. I then found myself holding him as I fought past emotions and tried to keep a steady head. Clearly my bullet had hit Sebastian first and had knocked him off target. Instead of his chest, John was shot in the shoulder - again. I was shaking him frantically, begging him to hold on and shouting his name over and over.

Finally, I felt a glimpse of hope from the grip of his hand.

“John?!” I said loudly, my hand on his chest and shaking him. His eyelids fluttered open as his face contorted into the ugly expression of pain. His eyes were wet with tears.

“John, come on you can fight this, you’re a soldier.” I begged, shaking my head in disbelief.

I could see John slipping away with every second that passed by. His face was whiter than when I drew him out of the cold chamber. I knew he wasn’t going to make it but I couldn’t bear to think of losing him permanently.

With one arm hooked round his shoulders, holding his head, and the hand of that arm grasping onto his left arm and my other hand splayed across his chest, I held him in his last few moments.

I couldn’t control my emotions now, my heart was truly ruling over my head. The tears poured thick and fast.

“Sh-Sherlock...” He whispered.

John looked up into my eyes. With effort, John lifted his hand up to my face and his frozen palm caressed my cheek. I could see that with every movement John made, it caused him intense agony. Immediately, my hand shot up to clasp onto his. John removed it quickly and clumsily to move his hold round to my neck and he pulled my limp head down so that my face met his.

I brought the hand on his chest up to his face as we kissed through tears, meaningfully, properly.

Our first and our last.

I wanted it to last forever but eventually I lifted my head up again to watch him. John’s eye lids dropped to a tired expression as a weak smile spread across his lips.

He remained like this, with the rain pounding down on his face, for the rest of his time.

 I grimaced as I realised he was finally gone. I found myself unable to control anything, I hunched over him, sheltering his body from the rain, pulling him close towards me, as close as I could, as the tears just kept coming. John was gone. Forever.

And in that moment, I had never experienced that sort of loneliness before. John came along and breathed new life into me. He made me open my eyes and look at life from a different perspective. He helped me appreciate things which beforehand I wouldn’t have even taken a second glance at. He made me a better person; he changed me, made me more... human. Theoretically, John completed me. And now that part of me has been ripped away and I can’t even remember how I went on without John by my side.  

They say it takes only a couple of weeks to break a habit, but I still find myself looking down to my side to see if John is impressed by my deductions on a case.

I miss you, John.

Without John there, I found myself alone in 221b and only with the company of my skull, like before. But it was different this time. That old friend of mine will never be good company to me now.

The funeral came. Gone. I hardly remember a thing. Mrs Hudson arranged most of it. I had only one request, for him to be buried next to ‘my’ grave in the cemetery. I sat in silence for the whole ceremony, feeling cold and numb. It was only when everyone had disappeared and I was finally left alone with John did I even breathe a word.

I forced my hands deep into my coat pockets as I stared at what had become of my John.

“JOHN WATSON”

My eyebrows knitted together and my eyelids fell shut as a single tear formed in the corner of my eye.

Caring was never an advantage. Look where it got John now.

I managed to compose myself and look up at the headstone from underneath my drooping eyelids.

My last words to John then and my last words to John now.

  
“Goodbye, John.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading folks!


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